


LIBRARY OF CONGRESS, 


Shelf ..0^.5 


UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 









} 

# 

\> 


">■ 

^ — * * T" 

'j 



V' 














s 






I 


) 






« 


» 


t 


I 










» 


% 


K 




% 








I 



'• 




t 



• \ 


» 


« 






f 




«•*. 


♦ 




4 


J A. 






« 






/ . 


4 


I 


I I 


4 







14: 


25 Cts, 


Copyright, 1885, 
by Harper & Brothers 


July 17, 1885 


Subscription Price 
per Year, 52 Numbera, $15 


Entered at the Post-Office at New York, as Second-class Mail Matter 


A HARD KNOT 




■ 2 . Noocl 




f' y-, 

* < * J.'- ■' 

• r- r- /. ' 


r It "f 


: 


^ .. 'f" ‘ 

By CHARLES GIBBON 

AUTHOR OP 

“ BY MEAD AND STREAM ” “ HEART’S DELIGHT ” “ THE GOLDEN SHAFT ” ETC, 


Books you may hold readily in your hatid are the most vsefidy after all 

Dr, Johnson 


NEW YORK 

HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS 

1885 


"BOOKS you may bold readily in your UaM are tlie most useful, after all.’' 

Dr. Johnson. 


HARPER’S HANDY SERIES. 


Some of tlie most attractive of current literature is finding its 
way into these volumes, which you may buy for a quarter, hold 
easily in one hand, and slip into your pocket between the readings. 

— iv: r. Sun. 

Convenient in size, the type is large and clear, and the paper ex- 
cellent. The series, which is well named, cannot fail to become 
popular. — Boston Gazette. 

In every respect handy for the traveller and for the summer vaca- 
tion. — Christian Intelligencer, N. Y. 

Literary quality and handy form will make these books the most 
popular ones for travellers and sojourners by the sea or in the 
country. — Boston Globe. 

Pleasant summer reading in a very convenient form. — Observer, 
N. Y. 

This new serial is rapidly winning its way to popularity. Its 
size and shape are exactly suited to the pocket and the hand, and 
its price to the most modest purse. Its type is large enough to be 
perfectly legible. Most important of all, the selections made for 
the honor of appearing in this fastidious form are excellent. — 
N. T. Journal of Commerce. 

This new series, besides its high literary character, is presented in 
a particularly handsome and convenient form. The type is so 
large as not to tire the eye of the railroad traveller, and the size is 
convenient to hold and for the pocket. — Boston Transcript. 


Volumes of HARPER’S HANDY SERIES already issued. 

NO CENTS 

1. That Terrible Man. A Novel. By W. E. Norris 25 

2. Society in London. By A Foreign Resident 25 

3. Mignon; or, Bootles’s Baby. A Novel, By J. S. Winter, Ill’d, 25 

4. Louisa. A Novel. By K. S. Macquoid. Vol. 1 25 

5. Louisa. A Novel. By K. S, Macquoid. Vol. II 25 

6. Home Letters. By the Late Earl of Beaconsfield. Illustrated. . 25 

7. How TO Play Whist. By “Five of Clubs” (R. A. Proctor), . . 25 

8. Mr. Butler’s Ward, A Novel. By F, Mabel Robinson 25 

9. John Needham’s Double. A Novel. By Joseph Hatton 25 

10. The Mahdi. By James Darmesteter. With Portraits 25 

11. The World op London. By Count Vasili 25 

12. The Waters of Hercules. A Novel 25 

13. She’s All the World to Me. A Novel. By Hall Caine 25 

14. A Hard Knot. A Novel. By Charles Gibbon 25 

Other volumes in p'eparation. 


Harper & Brothers will send any of the above works by mail, postage pre^ 
paid, to any part of the United States or Canada, on receipt of the price. 




> 

i 

A HARD KNOT. 



CHAPTER I. 

A SECRET. 

John Hadden occupied a modest-looking house, to which he had 
removed on first entering on possession of his small fortune. His 
household consisted of two persons — a housekeeper, Mrs. Greig, 
whose husband had been a moulder, and had been accidentally 
killed in the foundry; the second person was a smart maid-of-all- 
work. 

To this couple the behavior and pursuits of their mnster were not 
a little mysterious, and became the subject of much curiosity. Mrs. 
Greig, especially, was eager to know how he occupied himself; but 
he had cleverly foiled every effort she had made to pry into his 
secret, apparently finding amusement in outwitting her, and either 
being too kind to find fault with her for a propensity which he ad- 
mitted to be a general failing of her sex, or finding the amusement 
too good to think of parting with her. 

. Mrs. Greig always asked, when she handed him his hat, where was 
he going, and when would he return. To these questions she always 
received the same answer: “I don’t know.” 

He would walk out with a chuckling, genial smile, and return, 
perhaps, in half an hour, perhaps not for a week, or even a month. 
In either case he stepped up to the door with the same smile on his 
lips as when he had gone out, and a general J:)earing of having just 
been round the corner for a few minutes. 

At home his manner was quiet and observant. Nothing escaped 
him, and Mrs. Greig declared that “the auld man” would reckon 
the hairs of one’s head like a'flash of lightning. He spent his time 
chiefly in his library, which was the front room, and which served 
him for every purpose save a sleeping-chamber. 

Two sides of the room were covered with books. One side was 
occupied by a large, old-fashioned cabinet, in the under part of which 
he had placed a small safe, and by the window stood a writing- 
table. The cabinet and the drawers of the table were filled with 
papers; but these were kept with unusual order — every packet dock 

1 


2 


A HARD KNOT, 


eted and arranged according to date; and everything was locked up, 
save when he was in the room himself. 

There was a thick, morocco-bound book in which Mrs, Greig often 
saw him writing; and, perhaps because it was the particular book 
which he took especial care to lock up in the safe, that was the very 
work the housekeeper was most anxious to read. She had never 
obtained an opportunity, however; and all that she had been able to 
learn of her master’s ways out of doors was that he frequently vis- 
ited Mrs. Burnett, an officer’s xvidow, who lived with her daughter 
in Hill Street. Mrs. Greig’s conclusions were neither very generous 
as regarded her master, nor very respectful as regarded Mrs. Burnett 
and her daughter. 

“Ye hae come hame,” said Mrs. Greig, opening the door for him 
with a half-injured, half-inquisitive expression. 

He invariably received the same salutation and the same look, 
whether he had been out five minutes or five days. He nodded, and, 
with an unusually preoccupied air, passed into his room. The house- 
keeper followed, complaining that he had been letting his dinner get 
“cauld.” 

“ Bring it in as it is,” he said, opening the cabinet, and then the 
safe, forgetting to take off his hat. 

JVIrs. Greig proceeded to obey, and on her return, followed by the 
handmaid Betty, carrying a large tray, they found him seated at his 
desk, busily writing in that particular morocco-bound book which 
he guarded with so much care. His hat was still on. 

Betty gaped, and Avas properly reprimanded by Mrs. Greig for her 
ill-manners ; but while they Avere engaged arranging the dishes on 
the centre-table the good Avoman more than once peered at her mas- 
ter and the book. He wrote a small, angular calligraphy, however, 
which Avould have troubled Mrs. Greig to read even had she been 
permitted to hold the open pages in her hand. 

Everything Avas ready, she told him, but he did not seem to 
hear. She Avaited nearly ten minutes, during which he went on 
Avri i ig. 

She laid her big hand on his shoulder, taking advantage at the 
same time to stare at the book and give him a shake. 

“ Ye’ll let it grow cauld again.” 

“ No, I haven’t got it ; but it’s a child — ” 

“A what ?” 

He looked up Avith his amused grin, and closed the book. He was 
roused from his abstraction. 

“A zoological specimen, Mrs. Greig, which you will maybe see at 
the Botanic Gardens.” 

She had a notion that he was quizzing her, but she said nothing. 
He seated himself briskly, and began to eat as if in a great hurry. 


A HARD KNOT. 


3 


Almost before he had finished he desired her to take the things away, 
and not to disturb him again until he rang. 

As soon as the door had been closed he resumed his place at the 
desk, reopened the book, and proceeded to write. 

The subject of his composition was a minute detail of every cir- 
cumstance connected with the murder of a woman named Jean Gor- 
bal, who had been found dead in her house in Port-Dundas. Noth- 
ing was omitted. When he had completed his report of everything 
he had heard, seen, and discovered, he made the following memo- 
randa : 

“ 1st. An old gentleman in a brougham. 

*‘2d. Two ladies, apparently mother and daughter. 

“3d. A young man, railway guard or porter. 

“4th. An oldish man, black beard, scowling face, sou’-vc^ester hat, 
apparently belonging to some coal-boat or coasting collier. Evi- 
dently identical with Bob Little, boatman. 

“5th. My man — young, tall, elegant, gray kid gloves ; foot, nine 
inches from heel to toe, outside ; umbrella with .patent ferule. 

“6th. Jean Gorbal’s husband, a sailor, said to be drowned ; her 
son Tom, said to be on board man-of-war. 

“7th. Jean Gorbal, deceased, reported to have said, in rtierencc 
to her income, ‘ If I want more, I can get it where the rest comes 
from. ’ 

‘ ‘ The whole thing rests on these words. The woman Gorbal pos- 
sessed some important secret affecting the character, position, or fort- 
une, or all three combined, of some person or persons of position. 
She used her power over them, stretched and abused it, and they 
crushed her. 

“ What was the nature of the secret, and how did she come to 
know it ? 

“ In her youth, no doubt, she had been a servant in some wealthy 
family. While there she discovered, by accident or cunning, the se- 
cret. What was it ? 

‘ ‘ I begin to see an unhappy family affair — a false wife, probably. 
That will complicate the matter. It will be necessary to find not 
only the wife, but also the lover, for it is he who has struck the blow. 
He has done it cleverly, too, with coolness and calculation. The ig- 
norant man, or the merely cunning man, would have made a slip 
somewhere by which he might have been trapped ; but this crime 
has been accomplished with marvellous audacity and prevision. 

“ The villain has left nothing to compromise him seriously. With- 
out me. Captain Mactier would have been satisfied with his conclu- 
sion that the motive of the crime was robbery. He would have pro- 
ceeded on that argument, and— missed the mark.” 

He ceased writing ; but, still leaning over the book, he gnawed, at 


4 


A HAKD KNOT, 


the end of his pen, while his brows contracted, and his eyes were half 
closed, as if he were shutting out the daylight from his brain, that he 
might look the more keenly inward. 

With a subdued ejaculation of pleasure he hastily recommenced 
writing : 

“Yes, there was a child, and here is the stoiy : The woman Jean 
Gorbal is in the service of a lady, very rich, high position. Her hus- 
band is a merchant, contractor, banker, officer in the army or navy 
— any of them will do ; but he is called away from home, and is ab- 
sent more than a year. Meanwhile the lady has a lover. She finds 
herself about to give birth to a child, and she confides in the woman 
Gorbal. With her help the child is born in secret and conveyed 
away, so that the mother’s shame and sin may never be known. The 
secret is well kept, 

“What becomes of the child ? They could not have killed it ? 
No, for Jean Gorbal, as the accomplice of an infanticide, would no 
longer be a person to fear. The child lives, is confided to her care, 
and she rears it. Can it be the son Tom ? 

“At any rate, the child is taken away from her, but they cannot 
get from her the proofs of the birth. She has her grasp upon them 
strong, as if the child were still under her charge. She wants for 
nothing ; her silence is Avorth a fortune. As she grows old she be- 
comes avaricious. Her demands increase with years ; she becomes 
troublesome, importunate, unbearable. At last she threatens — for 
human nature is always the same, and can never be satisfied. Then 
they say, ‘ We have endured enough ; let us put an end to it all at 
once, and forever, by removing this woman from our Avay.’ 

“Here my links join. The gentleman in the brougham — he is the 
father ; the lady who called with the elegant j'oung lady — she is the 
mother ; but Avho undertakes to remove the terror ? Not the father, 
for he is too old. Not the mother, for she Avould have used poison. 
The daughter ? Impossible ! Who then ? 

‘ ‘ The elegant young man Avith the gray kid gloves is interested in 
the mother or the daughter ; both, probably, for he might be the af- 
fianced husband of the daughter, who has an immense fortune, while 
he has only his Avits to depend on. To save them from disgrace, 
and to avoid the possible ruin of his OAvn fortune, he takes the mat- 
ter in hand, kills the woman Gorbal, and burns the proofs of the 
lady’s sin.” 

There Avas an expression of intense gratification on his face as he 
laid down the pen. He shook some fine-ground glass on the paper 
to dry it ; he never used blotting-paper— that was an article Avhich 
he considered serviceable only to those Avho did not care Avhether or 
not their writing became knoAvn to anybody who took the trouble to 
examine the blotter. Then he closed the book, and leaned back in 


A HARD KNOT. 


5 


his chair, witli a long breath of relief, and eyes dancing with 
pleasure. 

“ It’s a sad affair, and a bad affair,” he muttered, frowning ; “but 
how often within the last few months have I read a similar narrative 
of a woman wicked or weak, and a man indifferent and a scoundrel, 
revealed in the Divorce Court. Ugh ! Heaven help us ! we are 
weak creatures.” 

He rose, and locked up the book in the safe, and then locked the 
cabinet. 

“ I’ll not go to Mr. Lyon to-night ; I’ll wait till morning, when I 
can review it all calmly. I’ll go over to Hill Street, and have a chat 
with Mrs. Burnett and Sarah. That’ll clear my head, and freshen it 
for the morning’s work.” 


CHAPTER II. 

THE officer’s WIDOW. 

Mr, Hadden called loudly to Mrs. Greig for his hat, and the ma^ 
tron, with much contempt for- his forgetfulness, informed him that 
he had it on his head. He was profoundly astonished to find that 
she spoke truly. He grasped his umbrella, and was about to march 
straight from the house without a word, 

“When’ll ye be back ?” demanded Mrs. Greig, as usual. 

“I don’t know,” as usual. 

“You’ll be back the nicht?” 

“ I don’t know.” 

He went out, and Mrs. Greig watched him jealously till he turned 
the corner. 

“Hill Street again,” she said. “He’ll be making the officer’s 
widow Mrs. Hadden one o’ these days, and then I may go.” 

She closed the door, and proceeded to scold Betty, the maid, in the 
broadest dialect, which she only used in its purity when she was in 
a passion, or speaking familiarly. 

Mrs. Burnett, the widow of Lieutenant Burnett, of the 5th Hussars, 
had for nearly fifteen years occupied the same house in Hill Street 
with her daughter Sarah. The house was one of the oldest in the 
street, but was substantial and comfortable. The efforts of active 
hands and tasteful minds rendered the interior even elegant. 

The widow lady had a small fortune, which was sufficient to ena- 
ble her to live comfortably, and to afford her daughter the best edu- 
cation — which was all she could give her, for she had not sufficient 
prudence, or she had not sufficient self-denial, to lay by much of 
her income to provide for her daughter when she died. The in- 


6 


A HARD KNOT. 


come ceased with her life, and so Sarah’s prospects were not 
brilliant. 

Of this, however, Sarah never seemed to think. She had devoted 
her life to watchful attendance on her mother, whose every wish she 
submitted to and endeavored to gratify. Calm, firm, and intelligent, 
yet gentle and loving, Sarah was the opposite of her mother in char- 
acter as well as appearance, and from her fifteenth year became the 
ruling spirit of the house. Her mother was too indolent to interfere, 
and without a word permitted the whole charge to devolve on her 
child. ^ 

Mrs. Burnett was one of those easy-natured women who gladly 
escape all personal trouble and responsibility. She w^as of fair com- 
plexion, l3"mphatic disposition, and had once been a beauty. She 
retained some of her former charms still, although in her fiftieth 
year, and was not a little vain of them. Indeed, the one thing in 
which she really interested herself was dress. That was her princi- 
pal fault, barring a little peevishness, which was doubtless the result 
of an enfeebled constitution. 

Sarah was, on the contrary, resolute and forbearing in character. 
In person she was such a contrast to her mother that nobody could 
have guessed their relationship from their appearance. 

She was about the average height, dark in complexion as a child 
of Spain. She was not a beauty — her mouth, despite the rich ripe- 
ness of her lips, was too large, and her nose a little too prominent for 
that. To make amends, her hair was thick, jet black, glossy, and 
soft as silk ; her teeth were regular, and pure as pearls, and in her 
big dark eyes there was a power, an expression, that formed a mag- 
netic attraction, and made one wholly forget the irregularity of the 
features. 

In brief, hers was one of those faces which, once seen, can never 
be fofgotten. One might say that it possessed the light which, like 
the sun’s ray on the sensitive plant, flashed upon the mind and left 
its imprint indelibly there. 

Sarah’s filial devotion wmn for her the admiring attention of Mr. 
Laurence Hewitt, a rapidly rising solicitor in George Street. Mr. 
Hewitt and Mr. Hadden w^ere the chief visitors and almost the only 
friends of Mrs. Burnett. 

The old man, indeed, found himself so much at home in Hill Street 
that he had been more than once on the point of proposing for the 
widow, old as he w\as, and long as it had been since his marrying- 
days had passed. But he so dreaded the loss of the society of that 
lady and her daughter, which he thought the rejection of such a pro- 
posal would render inevitable, that he continued to postpone his of- 
fer until there was a probability that it never would be made. 

Meanwhile, esteeming her as a daughter, he had taken care to pro- 


A HARD KNOT. 


7 


vide a large space in his will for Sarah, bequeathing to her, in fact, 
his whole fortune, with the exception of a portion appropriated to 
the Glasgow detective force. 

Naturally, under these circumstances, jMr, Hadden was made quite 
at home in Hill Street ; and Sarah, who in all the difficulties of the 
household had either to decide for herself or obtain advice from the 
first friend that appeared, had gradually learned to make Mr. Had- 
den her confidant and counsellor. 

He never failed her, never considered anything that he might have 
to do for her a trouble, and delighted in all things to act towards her 
as a kind, considerate father might have done, fie almost grudged 
the time she gave to Mr. Hewitt, who had been a visitor for two 
years ; but as during the past six months that gentleman’s attentions 
had assumed the definite form of a proposal of marriage, and as he 
was, by all reports, an excellent lawyer and a w'orthy man, Mr. Had- 
den mentally blessed the young couple, and set about thinking what 
he should do for them on their marriage. 

It was a pity that such a man had been doomed to bachelorhood, 
for, with an ordinarily sensible woman, he would have formed the 
centre of a happy hoine. 

As an unusual occurrence, Mr. Hadden had been absent from Hill 
Street for fifteen days, and he now knocked at the door with eager 
expectancy of the warm welcome he was to receive. 

“Is Mrs. Burnett in?” he inquired when the housemaid opened 
the door, and he walked straight into the parlor as if it had been his 
own house. 

The parlor was well furnished, and was made a pleasant chamber 
by the tidiness and tasteful arrangement which Sarah preserved ; 
but at a glance Hadden perceived that on the present occasion the 
room was in decided disorder. 

The sofa was shoved over to the window, one chair was overturned, 
the other chairs and table were out of their places; on the floor lay a 
crumpled copy of the Daily Mail, and everything indicated confusion. 

Turning quickly to the girl, who had followed him into the room, 
he observed now that she looked frightened and pale, and her dress 
was slightly disarranged. 

“ Has anything happened ?” he demanded, quickly. 

“Oh, sir, there’s something awfu’!” she cried, with hands raised 
to her eyes. 

“ What is it — what is it?” 

“You know that for the last month the mistress has been poorly. 
She eats naething, and this morning—” 

“ Yes, yes, but this evening ?” 

“After dinner she took up the paper to read the news ; but she 
♦ had scarcely looked at it when she gave a scream— such a horrible 


8 


A HARD KNOT. 


scream ! Miss Sarah and me ran into the room, and the mistress was 
lying on the floor as if she was dead. We carried her to her bed- 
room, and I wanted to go for the doctor ; but Miss Sarah said no, it 
wasna sickness that was tlie matter wi’ her, and that she knew what 
it was.” 

“ And how is she now?” 

“She’s come-to again — that is, I suppose she has, for Miss Sarah 
sent me out of the room. All that I ken is, that she has been speak- 
ing for the last hour at whiles — and very loud, for I heard her. Oh, 
it w’as awfu’ !” 

“ What was awfu’?” 

Mr. Hadden’s alarm and astonishment were momentarily in- 
creasing. 

“What the mistress was saying.” 

“ Eh, lass, were you listening ?” 

“No, no, maister ! I wasna listening ; but the mistress cried out 
as if she was ruined and lost, and she said — ” 

“Stop,” interrupted Mr. Hadden, raising his hand warningly, 
“ stop, my lass ; listeners never hear anything good at a key- 
hole.” 

The girl was confused, and tried to exculpate herself. 

“That will do,” he said, with some severitj^ “ If you promise to 
mind your own business, and leave the affairs of your mistress alone, 
I will say nothing. You need not call Miss Sarah; I will wait un- 
til she comes.” 

The girl retired, and Hadden, satisfied with the lesson he had given 
her, picked up the newspaper, and still keeping his hat and umbrella 
in his hand, settled himself by the window to read. 

He had scarcely been seated for more than a couple of minutes, 
when he bounded to his feet with a cry of amaze and alarm. He 
had been startled by this paragraph ; 

“Mysterious Murder in Port-Dundas. — Considerable excite- 
ment prevails in the district of Port-Dundas by the discovery wiiich 
has just been made that a widow W'Oman, named Jean Gorbal, has 
been murdered in her own house. For tw^o days the house has been 
closed, and on the door being forced open by the authorities, the 
poor w^oman w^as found lying dead by the fireplace, with two stabs 
in the back. The police are on the track of the supposed criminals, 
and every exertion is being made to apprehend them. We will 
give particulars of this sad and mysterious event in our next edi- 
tion.” 

“Thunder !” exclaimed Hadden. “Is it possible that Mrs. Bur- 
nett can have any acquaintance — ” 


A HARD KNOT. 


9 


lie gave himself a shake and sat down, wiping his brow with his 
handkerchief. 

“I think this affair will drive me crazy,” he muttered. “I can 
sec nothing, hear nothing, that I do not associate with the woman 
Gorbal. Ridiculous !” 

Curiosity, however, led him to examine the paper closely, and 
among all its contents he could discover nothing, save the paragraph 
quoted, which could afford the slightest clew to the cause of Mrs. 
Burnett’s sudden indisposition. There was not another line that 
could have caused the faintest emotion. 

It was singular, and, still more singular, the side of the paper close 
to the paragraph was crumpled, and partially torn, as if by the spas- 
modic grip of a nervous hand. 

“Most extraordinary !” gasped the detective, fixing his glasses on 
his nose. 

The glasses hung round his neck by a piece of narrow black silk 
ribbon, but he scarcely ever used them, except when they served to 
aid him in concealing any expression of his visage which might have 
betrayed his thought, or when he was exceedingly amazed, as in the 
present instance, and, out of mere habit, he found occupation with 
them for his restless hands. 


CHAPTER III. 

SARAH BURNETT’S DECLARATION. 

The door at this moment opened, and Sarah appeared on the 
threshold. She was pallid as death, and her unusually calm, reso- 
lute face indicated suffering and trouble of the mind in an in- 
tense degree. She seemed to be astonished by the presence of ME 
Hadden. 

“My dear Sarah,” said the good man, advancing quickly to her 
and taking her hands, “ tell me at once what has happened to your 
mother, and if she is better.” 

“Mistress Burnett is as well as possible.” 

The tone was cold, curt, and strange. 

“Mistress Burnett!” he ejaculated, puzzled by this new form 
adopted by Sarah in speaking of her mother; but he went on kind- 
ly: “ I see you have been greatly agitated.” 

“ Yes,” rejoined Sarah, weariedly, and withdrawing her hands from 
him as she passed one abstractedly over her brow and eyes, as if she 
were trying to remove the trouble which had settled upon them; 
“yes, I have sustained a cruel shock.” 

She was evidently trying hard, trying with all the strength she 


10 


A HARD KNOT. 


possessed, to maintain an air of calmness ; to listen to liis questions 
and to answer them quietly. 

Mr. Hadden’s paternal interest in the girl, so young, and yet af- 
flicted with so deep a sorrow, was excited to a degree. 

“My dear child, at least relieve my anxiety by telling me what 
has happened, and how.” 

She hesitated, and apparently reflected whether or not she should 
satisfy him. He was still her chief counsellor in all ditticulties, not- 
withstanding her engagement to Mr. Hewitt ; he was the chief friend 
of her mother ; and yet she hesitated whether or not to answer him. 
The reserve was very unusual, and *he concluded that the occasion 
of it must be peculiar. She seemed to be undecided how to respond, 
but at length ; 

“Mistress Burnett has been distressed by learning from the paper 
that a woman in whom she was much interested has been murdered.” 

“Eh! what? Did your mother know Jean Gorbal?” 

He was so much taken by surprise that he had almost betrayed his 
connection with the detective force. He, however, checked himself 
in time, and experienced a glow of satisfaction in finding himself 
thus by accident on the track of the past history of the murdered 
woman. He concealed his gratification with an effort. 

“The poor woman was in the service of Mistress Burnett at one 
time,” said Sarah, speaking still with hesitation, and in an agitated 
manner. “She was devoted to her mistress heart and soul, and 
would have thrown herself into the fire to serve her. ” 

“Then you — you too, Sarah, must have known the •woman?” 

Sarah had still more difficulty in controlling the agitation of her 
voice as she replied; 

‘ ‘ I have not seen her for a long time, but I know her well ; more, 
I was very fond of her, for she was my nurse.” 

“ She? — this woman?” 

Mr. Hadden opened his e3^es, drew a long breath, and felt that he 
was growing sufficiently excited to forget all about the desire he en- 
tertained to conceal his private occupation. It seemed as if Provi- 
dence had chosen him as the instrument of its vengeance and guided 
his hand. The woman Gorbal Sarah’s nurse I Here, then, he would 
obtain at once the knowledge which, half an hour ago, he had almost 
despaired of procuring. 

He remained mute in his surprise before Sarah, but presently, re- 
membering the necessity to say something in order to avoid com- 
promising himself ; 

“ It is an unhappy affair,” he said softly. 

Sarah's hands were now clasped before her, and her big dark eyes 
stared vacantly at the window, as if she were looking towards some- 
thing far away. 


A HARD KNOT. 


11 


“ For Mistress Burnett, I don’t know what it may be,” she said, in 
that strange, cold tone; “but for me, it is a misfortune more terrible 
than you can conceive. The blow which killed that poor woman 
has stricken my heart also. Her death, dear Mr. Hadden, has de- 
stroyed every dream of the future I may have entertained, I had 
cruel outrages to avenge, cruel wrongs to set right, and that poor 
woman’s death has rendered me powerless, helpless, miserable.” 

She sank down in a chair now, and, covering her face with her 
hands, sobbed bitterly ; but they were the sobs of a strong nature, 
which had struggled hard to repress them, and which was still striv- 
ing to subdue this violent expression of emotion. 

“In the name of Heaven, Sarah, explain this to me!” cried her 
friend, earnestly, distressed and utterly bewildered by her grief. 
“What causes you all this suffering? The pain must be great to 
make you speak so wildly. ” 

“And the pain is great indeed. Ah, dear Mr. Hadden, you can- 
not know how great — I feel as if it were driving me mad; for there 
are wrongs now that can never be repaired, and I am left helpless, 
defenceless, against calumny and shame.” 

‘ ‘ Calumny 1 shame ! — you 1” 

“Ay, me; for I dare not speak now, for people would point me 
out as an ambitious adventuress, a false and dishonored woman.” 

Mr. Hadden did not know what to think. He could not see the 
remotest connection between Sarah’s mother and the death of Jean 
Gorbal; and he was troubled with a thousand bewildering con- 
jectures. 

“My dear child,” he said kindly, laying his hand on her shoulder, 
“ I can’t understand you. What dishonor, what calumny, can affect 
you? Has anybody been making a quarrel between you and Hewitt?” 

“No, no!” she moaned, swaying her body slightly; “but he, too, 
will turn from me when he learns — ” 

“Thunder! learns what? Has anybody been slandering you? 
Has anybody wronged you? Speak, Sarah! confide in me, as you 
have always done.” 

With a calmness as sudden and strange as her exhibition of grief 
Sarah rose to her feet, hastily wiping her eyes with her handkerchief. 

“Yes, you shall know all,” she said, in a low, deliberate tone ; “ I 
have been trying to bear a burden that is too heavy for me, trying 
to keep a secret that is killing me. I have need of a wise, true 
friend to guide and help me, for this has filled me with hesitation 
and fear.” 

“ You know, Sarah, that you are to me as a child of my own might 
have been,” said the old man, tenderly, having now controlled his 
passion; “and you know that I will help you if man can do so.” 

“ I know it, good, kind friend!” 


12 


A HARD KNOT. 


Witli an impulsive movement she snatched his hand and pressed 
it to her lips. 

“I must go to my room. I will be with you in a moment,” she 
said quickly, not giving him time to recover from his astonishment, 
and she hurried from the apartment. 

In a few minutes she returned, carrying in her hand a small deed- 
box. She carefully closed the door and bolted it. She placed the 
deed-box on the floor, and directed her companion to be seated by 
the table. He obeyed, watching her curiously. 

She stood opposite to him at the corner of the table, pallid as 
marblef and as coldly calm. 

What if your mother calls ?” he said, glancing at the bolted 
door. 

“If Mistress Burnett wants anything the servants will attend to 
her.” 

This indifference and coldness in a daughter who had hitherto 
been so affectionate and dutiful was another subject of amaze to 
Hadden. 

“Come, come, Sarah! I see you have had a little tiff with your' 
mother ; but why this affectation of persisting in speaking of her as 
Mistress Burnett?” 

‘ ‘ Why, ” cried Sarah, in a choking voice, ‘ ‘ why — because Mis- 
tress Burnett is not my mother” 

“ Impossible! My dear child, do you know what you are saying? 
It is nonsense!” 

“Nonsensical and impossible as it may seem, it is the truth,” she 
retorted firmly. “For twenty-one years, that is to say, since the 
date of my birth, this woman has played the most marvellous, cun- 
ning, and treacherous part it is possible for a woman to play; all 
for the advantage of her own daughter — for she has a daughter — 
and to my detriment.” 

Mr. Hadden was silent, Tor in this strange declaration he saw the 
faint shadow of the murdered woman. 

“Ah, you may well say it is impossible,” she went on excitedly; 
“for who could believe that she could have been the infamous 
creature she is? Who could have believed that from the moment 
when she first took me on her knee she has deceived me with hypo- 
critical affection, kissed me with the kiss of Judas? And I loved 
her, never wearied of doing a daughter’s work for her, never com- 
plained of any sacrifice I had to make for her comfort; while she 
was blinding me with her false love, robbing me of my name and 
fortune to bestow them on her own child. Oh, it was cruel — it w^as 
baseness beyond credence!” 

She had opened the deed-box, and with agitated fingers had drawn 
from it a number of letters. One of these she unfolded and gave to 


A HARD KNOT. 


13 


him. He rose to his feet hastily, adjusting his glasses, and stooping 
over the epistle. 

She, with hands clasped and pressed on the table, bent forward 
w’ith a strange, eager look while he read. 

The letters had all a yellowish tinge, as if with age; the one in 
Mr. Hadden’s hand had less of this hue than the others. The pen- 
manship was of a bold, running character, and this was what it con- 
tained : 

“ Glasgow, 2(1 October, 1851. 

“Jean Gorbal refuses to give up the letters. I can do nothing 
further. I try to forgive you. Farewell.” 

And then came the bare initials, “R. C.,” and there was nothing 
more. 


CHAPTER IV. 

'AN ASTOUNDING REVELATION. 

Mr. Hadden perused the singular letter several times, uttering at 
each perusal a short, quick “Ah!” of amaze and curiosity. Then 
he deliberately refolded the letter, and returned it to Sarah. With- 
out a word he reseated himself, crossed his hands on the handle of 
his umbrella, leaned his chin on them, and gazed inquiringly at the 
dark young face opposite, which had been watching him with so 
much intentness. 

Sarah had not moved from her position. Pallid, cold, and with 
rigid features, she had remained until the moment he returned the 
paper. She took it and placed it on the table under her hand, and 
at that moment her big dark eyes flashed upon his face with unu- 
sual brilliance; then the long black lashes drooped over the eyes, 
and she waited for him to speak. 

“This is a grave affair,” he said presently, “a very grave affair, 
Sarah ; and it is not clear to me yet what it all means. A woman, 
to be what you represent your mother — I mean Mrs. Burnett — to 
be, must have possessed a degree of boldness and callousness rarely 
found in one of her sex. She must have had assistance; her hus- 
band must have been in the plot, and — ” 

“ Her husband !” interrupted Sarah, with a movement of impa- 
tience. “Ah, there is the sting ! in these two words rests the wh61e 
secret of my wrong and her infamy.” 

In all this Hadden began to realize something of the theory he 
had formed regarding the motive for the destruction of the woman 
Gorbal, and he was impatient to have the whole matter before him, 
that he might be able to see how near he had approached the truth. 


14 


A HARD KNOT. 


“Let us keep to the point, Sarah. You desire my advice; then 
first let me understand clearly the position, the circumstances under 
which my counsel may be serviceable. . Of this strange declaration 
you have made — a declaration which, I confess, at first seems to me 
bewildering — what proof have you ? How and when did you find 
it ?” 

Sarah had bent down on one knee on the floor beside the deed- 
box, and was methodically arranging a number of the letters in her 
hand. 

“It is now fifteen days since the matter came to my knowledge 
by accident; the same accident placed me in possession of such 
proofs as I hold of the truth of what I have said to you. Of moral 
proof I have enough; but of actual proof I have not enough. Yet 
one word from Jean Gorbal w^ould have placed my case beyond 
doubt, and she would have spoken it if she had only lived. But 
she has been murdered, and my proof falls to the ground, for she 
cannot speak the word that would have saved me.” 

“ Would she have spoken it?” 

“Yes, gladly, for she was fond of me. She loved me, and bitter- 
ly repented the wrong she had done me.” 

“Umph! Now explain the nature of the wrong.” 

“The explanation is contained in these letters; but, to save time, 
I will tell you as connectedly and briefly as I can, and you may ex- 
amine the letters in their order as I proceed. The one I have given 
you is the last, but it is one of the most important, as you will 
see.” 

“ Proceed.” 

“ It is a story that I blush to be compelled to speak of. I could 
not tell it were you not so old a friend, and my need for help so 
great.” 

“Good lass, no shame can attach to you for a deed to which you 
had no power to offer resistance. ” 

“Thanks; would that I could feel so! As I have told you, I 
made this discovery by accident. Fifteen days ago I had occasion 
to be searching for an old book which had gone a-missing. My 
good or ill fortune caused me to open a trunk which had been lying 
in the garret untouched for years. One of the keys among my set 
fitted the lock, and I opened it. There was nothing inside save a 
quantity of old newspapers, which were padded round the sides of 
this deed-box. I saw at once. that the thing I sought could not be 
there; yet the fiend of curiosity had seized me; the key was in the 
deed-box, and I opened it. These letters lay before me. I cannot 
tell you how strangely I felt as I gazed at them; but I can under- 
stand now that it was an instinctive presentiment of evil which 
warned me to stay my hand— to search no farther. But I was im- 


A HARD KNOT. 


15 


pelled by some stroDger power to search, and learn what those let- 
ters were about. I searched — ” 

“ And you were punished.” 

“Most cruelly. I took up the first packet, which was tied with 
this bit of blue silk ribbon, and I suspected at once that they were 
old love-letters. I opened one, and looked at the writing. Some 
instinct again warned me not to read; but curiosity impelled me, 
and I read. The first few lines were sufficient to show me that they 
were -written by my father. I was interested, and anxious to learn 
something of one who was so near to me, and whom I had never 
known. Then — ” 

She stopped, closed her lips tightly, and set her teeth; a momen- 
tary spasm moved her features, and they were placid again. The 
letters rustled in her hands as she proceeded to untie the packets. 

“Then” — she went on more composedly, but in a low tone, that 
quivered now and again with the emotion she controlled only by 
the most violent effort of self-command — “then the first letter 
quickened me to the perception that there had been evil work done, 
and I read on without pause to the end of the last. This was what 
I learned : Mr. Robert Cargill — ” 

“What! of Mavisbank House?” 

“Yes, he — the millionaire, the cotton lord, the man who stands 
as one of the chiefs of our city’s jcommerce— he is my father, and 
he planned and effected the scheme by which I have been robbed 
and made a creature of shame.” 

“Umph! another item in support of my theory,” muttered Had- 
den. 

Sarah either did not heed or did not hear. 

“One minute, and I will be able to lay bare the secret,” she said, 
wdth a suffocating accent. “It is not easy for me to speak of this, 
even when I have resolved to do so, and when I know that it must 
be done.” 

She bowed her head, and her form moved as if she were sobbing, 
although she uttered no sound. When she looked up, the face 
seemed to have become paler and harder than before. 

“ The letter I have marked with the figure 1,” she began at length, 
“is the earliest of the series, and forms the key-note to all that fol- 
lows. You can examine the letters in their order as I hand them to 
you. This is the story : 

“Robert Cargill, the only son of the head of the great firm of 
Cargill & Co., the manufacturers, had formed an attachment to 
Sarah Burnett, who was at that time governess in a family near Ed- 
inburgh. She was an orphan, handsome and ambitious. 

“ The family in which she had found an indulgent home was that 
of Mr. Douglas, of Bourtrie Hall. The family consisted of Mr. 


16 


A HARD KKOT. 


Douglas and his daughter Katherine, to whom Sarah Burnett was a 
kind of companion as well as governess. Mr. Douglas’s wife being 
dead, and his own health being delicate, he was eager to see his 
daughter settled in life by marriage with some worthy gentleman. 
As she had a dowry of a hundred thousand pounds, there were suit- 
ors in plenty for his daughter’s hand. 

“Among these suitors was Mr. Robert Cargill. But it appears 
that this gentleman was a suitor against his will, for he had already 
formed a passionate affection for the governess. This, however, he 
concealed from his father, and from Mr. Douglas; and while false- 
ly playing the lover to Katherine, -he was in reality courting the 
governess. ” 

“What date was that ?” asked Mr. Hadden. 

“ According to this letter, it was in 1842. 

‘ ‘ At length a marriage was arranged, and Mr. Douglas agreed 
to pay down, in full, his daughter’s dowry on the day of the cere- 
mony. Six days before the marriage took place Sarah Burnett 
quitted Bourtrie Hall, without having given any previous intima- 
tion of her intention to do so, and without leaving any hint of her 
destination. 

“ The marriage took place as arranged, the hundred thousand 
pounds were handed to the bridegroom, and the great firm of Car- 
gill & Co. was saved from bankruptcy.” 

“ Eh, what ?” exclaimed Mr. Hadden, quickly. 

“You can see the position: Mr. Cargill, senior, with the reputa- 
tion and credit of a millionaire, was in fact a bankrupt, and to save 
their firm from disgrace, and themselves from beggary, the son 
agreed to marry the innocent and unsuspicious lady he had de- 
ceived into the belief that he loved her, in order that he might ob- 
tain possession of her fortune. 

“ The letter which I have here, marked Ko. 2, carries the miser- 
able scheme a step farther. Eight days after his marriage Robert 
Cargill left his young wife in Mavisbank House, and went to Liver- 
pool — on business, he stated. There he met Sarah Burnett, as had 
been previously arranged. They went through some mockery of a 
ceremony ; and in all these letters, except the last, he calls Sarah his 
wife. He inveighs against his father for having forced him into a 
marriage, to suit the convenience of his business, with a creature he 
had grown to detest, and whom he could never look at without a 
wicked desire for her death.” 

Sarah paused here, and eovered her face with her handkerchief. 

“ My poor mother !” she sobbed, and her tone was full of bitter- 
ness. 

Mr. Hadden breathed quickly and fidgeted uncomfortably in his 
chair, repeatedly raising his glasses to his nose and dropping them 


A HARD KNOT. 


17 


again. The affair was beginning to take form, and it was a form 
that astounded even him. 

Sarah resumed with forced calmness : 

‘ ‘ I need not waste time or trouble you at present by referring to 
the endless meannesses and falsehoods to which this man stooped to 
blind the unhappy wife whose fortune saved his house from ruin — 
whose trust and devotion he requited by indifference, and an act of 
villainy so bad that, holding the proofs in my hand, I could not be- 
lieve at first that such things could be. I need not trouble you with 
the details of all this; you can guess what they must have been 
when you understand how little he valued his good, simple wife, 
and how much he was prepared to sacrifice for the sake of the 
scheming woman who now passed as Mistress Burnett. ” 

A warm flush of indignation lit her pale face like the reflection of 
fire, and subsided. 

Mr. Hadden muttered ‘‘Umph!” and she proceeded: 

“ The letter I have marked No. 4 — I have given you No. 3?” 

“ Yes, it is here.” 

“ No. 4, then, suggests the plot which was afterwards carried out. 
The woman Burnett appears to have had a little conscience, a little 
memory of the kindness she had experienced at the hands of Kathe- 
rine Cargill when they were together at Bourtrie Hall, or she dreaded 
the possible consequences of the crime. At any rate, she appears 
to have objected to the proposition — feebly and cunningly, no doubt, 
with some view to relieve herself of any responsibility in the matter — 
for letter 5 is occupied with arguments persuading her to compliance.” 

“But the nature of the plot — what was it?” inquired Mr. Had- 
den, eager to 'have the theory his busy brain had already formed 
confirmed or disproved. 

Sarah faltered with a momentary shyness as she responded : 

“It was in the spring of 1844 that Mrs. Cargill and Sarah Burnett 
were about to become mothers.” 

“Ah — that is it!” 

“This letter, No. 6, gives the whole arrangement of the scheme. 
You must read it.” 

The good man took the fade^ piece of paper she handed to 
him, adjusted his glasses, disposed himself so that the light might 
fall on the writing, and read thus : 

“Morley’s Hotel, Loiulou, 23th March, 1844. 

“My own Sarah, — We have arrived here so far safe and well. 
K. C., as I expected, complained peevishly of my stubbornness in 
persisting on this journey at the present time. She has been in her 
room all day, fretting over it. Let her stay there : I hate her whin- 
ing ways. 


18 


A HARD KNOT. 


“Your letter reached me, and you cannot know how much pleas- 
ure, how much delight, your consent has given me. You cannot 
know what joy I feel in the thought that your child — ‘ our’ child — 
will possess the position and advantages which my love for 3’ou 
makes me eager to bestow. Ay, that love makes me ready to dare 
any risk, to brave any venture, for the sake of our child’s future. 

“Now attend to these instructions carefully, for upon j^our exact 
fulfilment of them depends eveiything. Any forgetfulness or slip 
on your part will destroy the result of all that I have arranged with 
so much difficulty and anxiety. 

“First, then, you must start for London the moment you receive 
this. A cab will be waiting for j^ou on j^our arrival, and in the cab 
will be the nurse — a woman named Gorbal. She is the wife of a 
sailor, who comes from Greenock. She is a discreet woman, and so 
devoted to my interests that she will do anything for me. She is 
quite safe, because, setting aside whatever gratitude she may enter- 
tain towards me for having rescued her from the w^orkhouse, she 
knows that she is wdiolly dependent on me. 

“ Say notliing, however, to her, for I have led her to believe that 
you are ignorant of what is to happen. She will bring you here to 
Morley’s Hotel, where I have caused chambers to be reserved for 
3"ou. I will take care that, when the proper moment arrives, K. C.’s 
nurse shall be out of the w'ay. Then the woman Gorbal and Dr. 
Largie, who is an old friend of mine, willing to serve me, will com 
trive in the confusion to exchange the children. 

“I know that 3^0111’ kind heart will be as careful of the child in- 
- trusted to 3^00 as if it were 3^our own. I know this, or I should 
never risk so much to place the child of the woman I love in the 
position of heir to a millionaire. I will take care that the other 
child wants for nothing. 

“Be discreet and bold, and the result will justify all this trouble. 

“Ever3"our own, Robert Cargill.” 

Mr. Hadden pressed his forefinger on his temple and leaned for- 
ward, staring at the floor, trying to bring the ends of this strange 
story to meet the theory he had. harmed relative to the death of the 
woman Jean Gorbal. The antecedents of that unfortunate creature 
were, at any rate, clear. The chief point that remained to be set- 
tled now^ was whether or not the proposed exchange had been ef- 
fected. 

He put the question, and Sarah answered by presenting to him a 
letter numbered 7, in which Robert Cargill, five years after the date 
of letter 6, angrily upbraided Mrs. Burnett with having been false 
to him, and bitterly complaining that, after all he had done and 
risked for her sake, she had proved unworthy of his love. He 


A HARD KNOT. 


19 


agreed to make her an allowance of two hundred and fifty pounds a 
year, but he would never see her again. 

Then came the last letter, dated 2d October, 1851, which Mr. 
Hadden had read first, and which plainly indicated that there had 
been some trouble with Jean Gorbal, and that an effort had been 
made to obtain from her whatever indiscreet letters might have been 
written by Mr. Cargill or Mrs. Burnett. But the attempt had failed, 
and the woman kept her hold firm upon the guilty merchant prince 
and his unhappy and now discarded accomplice. 

“That closes the correspondence,” said Sarah, huskily. “You 
understand that K. C. stands for Katherine Cargill, who died in 
1853, holding in her hand that of the girl she supposed to be her 
own daughter — the hand of the girl who has usurped my place and 
robbed me of my name and fortune, and my mother’s love.” 

“ It was singular that the fates should have aided the conspiracy, 
as it would seem, by presenting children of the same sex,” muttered 
the detective, abstractedly. 

“ Yes,” commented Sarah, dryly, as she began to gather up the let- 
ters, and methodically proceeded to re-arrange them. 

“You have nothing more than what you have shown me?” 

“No ; but the proof morally is, I think, complete.” 

‘ ‘ Ay, but the proof positive is deficient. ” 

Sarah turned upon him a quick, searching glance. 

“Suppose that there can be no further proof than this I have 
shown you, tell me what is your opinion of the case?” 

“To me,” answered the good man, slowly, “you are no more 
the daughter of Mrs. Burnett than I am, but others may not think 
so.” 

“You are right, Mr. Hadden, and I recognized the difficulty at 
once. I went to Jean Gorbal. She had nursed me — she loved me. 
She had been tormented night and day by the memory of the crime 
she had committed. Her conscience was tortured every time she 
looked at me, the child she had betrayed. She confessed all the mo- 
ment she saw that I suspected the truth. The scheme of Mr. Car- 
gill, so cunningly conceived, had been as cunningly carried into ef- 
fect, and to the day of her death my poor mother had never once 
suspected the trick that had been put upon her. The fortunate cir- 
cumstance of the children being of the same sex removed the only 
serious difficulty which the conspirators were powerless to control, 
and the exchange took place exactly as arranged.” 

“It is monstrous !” 

“Jean Gorbal freely promised to give her testimony in my favor 
whenever I should stand forth to claim my rights.” 

“And she is dead, carrying your proof with her to the grave, ’^mut- 
tered the old man, regretfully. 


20 


A HARD KNOT. 


‘‘Perliaps ; but I have one hope still left— the letters written by 
my father, which she possessed. She had preserved them to the 
last. She showed them to me, and they confirmed simply all that I 
had learned from the letters I hold in my hand. She -would have 
given them to me on the spot, but I was confused and stupefied by 
the discovery I had made. I thought that, since she had kept them 
so long safely, she had better keep them still, until I had resolved 
upon the course I should adopt. The letters were most explicit, and 
their production would be decisive. I had them in my hands. I 
read them, and I hope that they will be found yet among poor Jean’s 
things.” 

“ There is no hope of that,” mentally observed the detective. The 
ashes of those letters had been found in the grate of the front room 
in Jean’s cottage, and it was beyond a doubt that the murder had 
been committed in order to obtain and destroy them. 

But by whom — by whom? That question remained unsettled yet. 

“It would seem, then,” he said thoughtfully, “that Mr. Cargill 
did not keep the promise he had made of providing for you com- 
fortably ?” 

“He did not provide for me at all, except by making the allow- 
ance to Mrs. Burnett.” 

“ What ! Why, that is tlie most infamous part of it all, and the 
basest. ” 

“Don’t blame my father !” she cried quickly, interrupting him, and 
raising her hand. “I am able to comprehend something of his char- 
acter from what I have heard about him, and what I have read of 
him. He was proud and stubborn : he fancied that he had been de- 
ceived by Mrs. Burnett, for whom he seems to have felt the warmest 
attachment up to the last. He was enraged with her, and in his rage 
overlooked me.” 

“ Umph! I should call that selfish and unpardonable neglect. 
However, that note dated October, 1851, is the most important you 
have got, so far as your identification as his legitimate child is con- 
cerned ; for why should he be so anxious to obtain the letters from 
Jean Gorbal, if he did not fear the revelation of the crime he had 
committed?” 

“That is how I have regarded it.” 

“Have you made known your discovery to Mrs. Burnett? and 
what did she say?” 

“Yes, I told her everything. What did she say ? What could 
she say, or what was a woman of her peevish and selfish disposition 
likely to say? She went into hysterics, accused me of ingratitude 
and callousness, asserted that I had gone mad, and that the discovery 
I was making such a fuss about was untrue, and worth nothing in a 
court of law.” 


# 

A HARD KNOT. 21 

“Ah, but she did think of the law; that confirms your belief 
in the importance of the letters. But there is one thing more I 
want to know. During the fifteen years Mrs. Burnett has been 
living in Glasgow has she never made any attempt to see Mr. 
Cargill?” 

“Frequently she made the attempt. This packet, which I have 
not opened, contains letters of hers, which she wrote to him, praying 
for an interview, and trying to explain her conduct. -He seems to 
be a man of inflexible mind, once he has determined on a thing; 
and he returned the letters to her without reading them.” 

The interview was interrupted by a knock at the door. 

“Who is there?” said Sarah, sharply. 

“ If you please, miss, the mistress is calling for you awful, and will 
no be quiet till you come.” 

Sarah hesitated. 

“ Go, my lass,” said IVIr. Hadden, gently. “ You need not make the 
wound you niust inflict deeper than is necessary.” 

Sarah quitted the room with a dark, relentless expression, as if 
she submitted to his counsel against her will. 

“Poor lass — poor lass!” he muttered to himself; “it is a misera- 
ble position for one so young and good to be placed in ; it is enough 
almost to upset every better feeling of her nature. She does not 
even suspect from what quarter the blow has come that breaks down 
her proofs and seems to render them useless. But I see, and that 
blow which killed Jean Gorbal shall be the convincing proof of 
Sarah’s rights. Yes, for that blow Kobert Cargill, Esq., or — ugh! 
abominable thought! — the girl who occupies Sarah’s position as his 
daughter is responsible. How? Umph! we shall see. I may take 
one of these letters for twenty-four hours, so as to compare the writ- 
i^, and satisfy myself they are the incontestable productions of the 
millionaire of Mavisbank House,” 


CHAPTER V. 

SARA II ’S DIARY. 

Mr. Hadden had scarcely closed the pocketbook in which he had 
placed the letter he had taken from the heap on the table before Sa- 
rah returned. 

Nothing in her expression afforded the slightest indication of what 
had taken place between her and Mrs. Burnett. She was cold, 
calm, and firm. She was a woman evidently capable of ambitious 
thoughts, and strong enough in resolve to carry them to an issue, 
young as she was in years. - 


1^ 

22 A HARD KNOT. 

“ Well,” queried the old man, briskly, “how is Mrs. Burnett? 
Better, I hope.” 

“ She is worse. Her brain is greatly affected, and she is delirious. 
In her ravings she accuses me of every atrocity and cruelty it is in 
the power of man or woman to perpetrate.” 

“You will, at any rate, send for the doctor now?” 

“I have just sent for him.” 

She seated herself at the table, and began carefully to replace the 
letters in the deed-box, without observing the absence of the one her 
friend had borrowed, and apparently without any immediate inten- 
tion of resuming the conversation; or, it might be, as if she reserved 
further speech till he had pronounced an opinion. 

After watching her for several minutes Mr. Hadden spoke, reflect- 
ively : 

“ The more I think of this matter, Sarah, the more astounding it 
seems, and the greater ditflculty I see in advising you how to pro- 
ceed. Did not Mrs. Burnett make some effort to exculpate her- 
self?” 

“Of course, as I have told you, she tried to explain the corre- 
spondence as having no reference to me. She — Oh, but why repeat 
the feeble falsehoods by which a woman strove to cloak the sin 
which was defenceless, and to screen the shame that was so pal- 
pable?” 

“ And she adheres to that denial?” 

“Yes,” and Sarah shrugged her shoulders slightly as she made 
the reply ; “ and it is that which adds to my vexation with her, that 
she will persist in the lie, when she knows it is useless in the teeth 
of all this proof. My first thouglit was that she loved me ; that I 
would burn the letters, and hide my discovery in my own heart for- 
ever. But now I know how base she is — how little she cares for m^ 
provided her own child is free from disgrace; and I will not be a 
party to this great fraud.” 

“You are right, my child; it would be wrong to permit the fraud 
to be perpetuated by your silence.” 

“ I wish you knew enough of the law to guide me. I — I feel al- 
most unable to explain this to Mr. Hewitt, and I fear that I must 
do it.” 

' “I confess, Sarah,” said Hadden, chuckling inwardly with the 
consciousness of how much more power he had than she suspected, 
“I confess that I am somewhat at a loss to help you, but I will do 
my best, and we must be guided to some extent by circumstances. 
Mrs. Burnett has, doubtless, sent notice of your discovery to Mr. 
Cargill?” 

“No doubt; but even if she has it will be of little service to her 
at present, for Mr. Cargill is in London. ” 


X HARD KNOT. 


23 


“How do you know that?” 

“I wished to see my father, and I went to Mavisbank House.” 

“You did ? — when ?” 

“I told you that I was enraged by her persistence in the lie, and 
having determined to claim my rights, you do not suppose that I 
would remain quietly in the house, biting my nails ? I went to the 
house, and, as I considered the visit of importance, I wrote down all 
that occurred in my diary. Here is the place; you had better read 
it now.” 

The book had been lying on the table, as she had taken it out of 
the deed-box with the letters, and she now placed it, open, in Mr. 
Hadden’s hand. 

This was the entry she referred to ; 

“ Tuesday, Wi April . — At last, after a week of anguish such as I 
pray Heaven I may never have to endure again, I was able to carry 
out my determination to visit Mavisbank House. Only last night I 
determined on this course, which has been tormenting my mind for 
the past week. It was so hard to decide — so hard to present myself 
at the great house of my father, with the probability of being turned 
from the door as an impostor— it was so hard to take this step, which 
finally separates me from the woman I have so long regarded as my 
mother, 

“At length I have done it, I walked to Partick to-day, and by 
saying to the porter at the lodge ‘of Mavisbank that I had important 
business at the house, I was permitted to pass up the avenue unques- 
tioned, It is a grand house — a grand place— and the very atmos- 
phere seems to tell that one is in the precincts of a millionaire’s 
mansion. My heart rose to my throat, and fluttered, and seemed to 
be choking me, I w^anted to turn back, and run from the place; 
but I had a duty to my dear dead mother to perform, and I went on, 
casting the trembling fears of the coward from me, 

“ I went up to the principal door and rang the bell, A footman 
opened it for me, and stared as if he thought me an impertinent 
hussy for attempting to obtain admission by that entrance ; for I 
saw that he took me for a relation of one of the servants, or a mil- 
liner or dressmaker. The blood rushed to my face under the man’s 
stare, and I felt my pulse quicken with a sort of indignation. Never 
till that moment had I experienced such a wild longing for wealth 
and power, simply that I might be able to punish this fellow for his 
insolence to one he thought poor, and therefore weak, 

“It Avas a simple occurrence, and a common one; but, on reflec- 
tion, I am disposed to be grateful to the foptman, for it was his rude- 
ness that stirred my temper, and gave me strength and courage to 
carry out the object of my visit. I asked for Mr. Cargill. 


24 


A HAKD KN-OT. 


Not at home, ’said the man ; and he seemed to be on the point 
of closing the door in my face. But I advanced a step into the hall, 
and prevented him. 

“ ‘ Is Miss Cargill at home?’ I asked. 

“ ‘ Yes; but she can’t see you unless you’ve come by appointment.’ 

“I advanced another step into the hall. 

“ ‘ I have not come by appointment, but I have come in reference 
to a matter of the utmost importance to Mr. Cargill and his daugh- 
ter. If you refuse to acquaint her that I am here, I will wait till 
your master returns.’ 

“ ‘ Then you’ll wait a few days,’ said the fellow, grinning, ‘ for he’s 
in London. ’ 

‘ ‘ ‘ There is all the more necessity why I should see your mistress. 
Refuse to give her my message at your peril.’ 

“ I suppose the man saw in my face and my way of speaking that 
I w’as in earnest, that my threat was not quite an empty one, and 
that I was not a beggar for myself or some charity. At any rate, he 
rang a bell, and told another footman who answered it to tell Miss 
Easton that ‘a person wanted to see her mistress particular.’ 

“Miss Easton — or Easton, as I afterwards heard her called — is 
‘my lady’s maid.’ She is a saucy, sharp woman of about thirty 
years of age. She at first refused to take my message, as she had 
never heard my name before, and knew that her mistress had no ac- 
quaintance with me. 

“By stubbornly insisting upon my object, I at length prevailed 
upon the woman to go to her mistress. She was all the more disin- 
clined to oblige me because I would not give her the slightest infor- 
mation as to the nature of my important business. After waiting in 
the hall for about half an hour, Easton returned and said that the 
lady had condescended — condescended to me ! — to see me ; and hold- 
ing her head disdainfully high, she conducted me up a magnificent 
staircase, along a broad, splendid corridor, and into my lady’s bou- 
doir. All these petty annoyances had been heating my blood, and I 
entered the room full of rage and utterly relentless, 

“It was a splendid apartment, tastefully arranged, and luxuriant, 
to a degree. Compared to it, the rooms of my home seemed poverty- 
stricken. This did not help to soothe my temper, but rather added 
to the fire. I was, however, struck by the appearance of the occu- 
pant of this chamber, whom I had found so much difficulty in reach- 
ing, and was for a few minutes silent in her presence. 

“She is, of course, of my own age — twenty-one; but she looks 
younger, for she has had none of the responsibilities to bear I have 
had. She is very fair, rather little, delicate and graceful in her 
figure. Her features are of that soft, rounded kind one sees in pict- 
ures of blondes, singularly regular, smooth and clear in complexion. 


- A HARD KNOT. 


25 


The hair i's bright as a band of sun-rays, and the face is lit by two 
large, pensive blue eyes. 

“Even to me — the woman whose place she has so long usurped — 
Katie Cargill, or, more properly, Katherine Burnett, is very beauti- 
ful. Her manner, too, is gentle, soft, and kind, forming a singular 
contrast to the arrogance of the servants around her. 

“My heart yearns to her: I feel that if I had met her under any 
other circumstances I would have loved her — I would have become 
devoted to her as to a cherished sister. 

“Again the thought occurred to me. Why should I rise like an 
evil genius to disturb the clear current of this innocent girl’s life? 
Why should I rise to render my father’s declining years miserable? 
— for I felt that she must be very dear to him. 

“Then came the memory of my poor mother, so deceived, so 
wronged, whose trust and love had been so brutally abused, and my 
heart became stern and morose, and the duty! had to do became 
imperative. 

‘ ‘ I bowed, and said with as much calmness as possible : 

“ ‘You do not know me. Miss Cargill; but that is of no impor- 
tance, as I think you will see when I tell you that the purpo-^c which 
brings me here affects your own and your father’s honor closely.’ 

‘ ‘ I suppose she did not believe me, or did not understand me, for 
she raised her softly pencilled eyebrows slightly, and smiled. She 
had never before heard a breath against the honor of her name, and 
I suppose the seriousness with which I suggested that such a thing 
was possible amused her. 

“ ‘ Will you sit down?’ she said, in a kind, gentle voice, which I 
was constrained to obey, although I had intended to remain stand- 
ing. 

“ ‘And now,’ she went on, ‘is this business very important, and 
will it take a long time to tell me?' 

‘“I am afraid. Miss Cargill, it will occupy you more than an 
hour.’ 

“ A shade of disappointment crossed her brow. 

“ ‘ And must you tell it to me? Could you not wait until papa 
comes home?’ 

“ ‘ I think the sooner you know the position in which my business 
places you it will be the better for you and another person con- 
cerned. ’ 

“ She looked at me •with a quick, penetrating glance, which showed 
that, gentle as she seemed, she had a fiery spirit when occasion 
roused it. 

“ ‘ You are very earnest,’ she said, ‘ and if it will relieve you, why, 

I must miss my morning ride for once. Excuse me a minute.’ 

> “ She went to a pretty enamelled escritoire and wrote a brief note.' 

2 


26 


A HARD KNOT. 


Then she rang the bell, and Easton entered, honoring me with an 
impudent glance. 

“ ‘ When Mr. Tavendale calls, give him this, Easton, if you please.* 

“ Easton took the note and quitted the room. 

“‘Now, I am completely at your service for the next hour,’ she 
said, seating herself in an easy-chair by the fire. 

“A little French poodle leaped into her lap, and she fondled it 
with the playfulness of a child, conscious of no trouble or thought 
of the future. I could not help thinking, as I looked at her, how 
often the greatest misfortunes of one’s life befall us when we feel 
most secure, and are therefore least prepared to meet them. 

“ ‘I am sorry. Miss Cargill,’ I said, resolved not to waste time, but 
to proceed at once to the core of the revelation, ‘that the business I 
have to speak about is of a most painful kind. Believe me, it is not 
you alone that will suifer for the faults of others. I beseech you to 
try to be calm, and at least to make an effort to read these letters be- 
fore you take any violent step.’ 

“ ‘Violent step!’ she exclaimed, laughing; ‘why, one would think 
you were going to tell me of some awful tragedy. What can it be 
that makes you speak so solemnly and look so grave?’ 

“ ‘ You will find it hard to believe what I have got to show you, 
but the upshot of it all is that you are not the legitimate daughter of 
Mr. Cargill.’ 

“ She started, and a look of surprise and indignation flashed across 
her face. 

“ ‘ Read these before you speak,’ I said, laying the principal letters 
on a small table beside her, and not giving her time to say a word. 

“ She hesitated a moment, as if inclined to pitch the letters back 
to me, and have me turned from the house as an impudent impos- 
tor ; but she altered her mind, took up one of the letters, and uttered 
a cry of amaze and fright, I thought, as she recognized her father’s 
penmanship. She turned her head away for a moment, and then be- 
gan to read. 

“I handed the letters to her one by one in their order. Without 
a word, she read on, and I watched her narrowly all the time. I 
have never seen such a sight, and I hope I may never see such an- 
other. At the end of the second letter her fair, fresh face had 
changed to a ghastly pallor; at the end of the fourth, the pallor had 
deepened to that sallow hue which the face of a corpse assumes a 
little while after death. She had taken her handkerchief from her 
pocket, and occasionally she raised it, with a trembling hand, to her 
lips and brow, to wipe off the clammy moisture which gathered on 
them ; and her cheeks were white as the handkerchief. 

“ Without a word, she read to the end ; without a word, she gave 
me back the last of the fatal letters. There was no exclamation, no 


A HAKD KNOT. 


27 


sigh, no gesture, to relieve the agony she suffered. The poodle fell 
from her lap, and she did not seem to know it. The stillness of her 
anguish was terrible, and at one moment I felt an impulse to throw 
the letters into the fire, clasp the beautiful girl in my arms, and cry 
to her, 

“ ‘ We are sisters : let us forget : let each remain in her place as 
before.’ 

“But that enthusiastic impulse was checked by the suggestion. If 
the letters are burned, is it likely that she will afterwards recognize 
me as a sister? No; the letters must be preserved for my dead 
mother’s sake. 

“ She remained in that silent, stupefied state for half an hour, and 
then she slowly rose to her feet ; but she leaned heavily on the back ^ 
of the chair. The girl had been transformed to a woman, aged in 
sad experience. She spoke in a voice so low and trembling that I 
could scarcely hear her. 

“ ‘From all that I have read there,’ she said, ‘I am led to the be- 
lief that I am not the daughter of Mrs. Cargill; but have you no 
other proofs than these— I mean proofs that could render my belief 
a certainty?’ 

“ ‘ Dr. Largie can speak.’ 

“ ‘ He died five years ago.’ 

“ ‘ Then there is the nurse, Jean Gorbal, who lives in Port-Dundas; 
her testimony will suffice. ’ 

“She did not speak for a little while: something in the name 
seemed to have suggested an important thought. At length her eyes 
brightened. 

“ ‘Yes, I remember,’ she said; ‘I remember hearing the name, 
and it was in connection with a large sum of money my father had 
to pay unwillingly.’ 

“ ‘ That is another item in the proof,’ I said. 

“‘Yes. Do you know the lady who is, by this account, my 
father’s legitimate daughter?’ 

“ ‘ Yes: you see her in me.’ 

“ She took my hands affectionately, and kissed me. 

“ ‘ Sister, in any case I am glad that I have found you;’ and she 
wept, resting her brow on my shoulder. 

“I could not speak. With what words could I attempt to con- 
sole her? She seemed to guess my difficulty, and by and by spoke 
herself. 

“ ‘ I want you to give me nine days, sister, before you proceed any 
farther. On the ninth day my father— our father— will arrive from 
London, and then I will be prepared to act. Do not fear or doubt; 

I will guard your interests as faithfully as my own. You take me 
from a high position : perhaps you will separate me from— from the 


28 


A HARD KNOT. 


man I love, and wliose wife I should have been in a little time, had 
not this happened ; but, in return, you give me a mother to cherish 
and aid in her age; and, above all, you enable me to help in the 
atonement for a great crime.’ 

“I promised to comply with her request, and left her.” 

That ended the statement of the diary, and, after closing the book, 
Mr. Hadden laid it down with the impression that it advanced one 
step nearer to the solution of the mystery. 

“And now,” he said, “I suppose you await the return of Mr, 
Cargill from London?” 

•“Yes; to-morrow is the day. And to-morrow I mean to ask Mr. 
Hewitt to find out what papers the constables found in the house of 
Jean Gorbal.” 

“Very good, and to-morrow I shall be able to give you the result 
of my night’s reflections. It would be useless for me to offer my ad- 
vice just now : the affair demands careful and earnest thought. My 
poor child, you have much to suffer yet.” 

. “Ay, and it is hard to bear this, joined to petty annoyances about 
money.” 

“Money! My dear Sarah, why have you not told me that be- 
fore? Here, I will lend you a small sum, for which I shall exact a 
•heavy interest — say a hundred per cent. Now don’t say a word, un- 
less you want to vex me ; but put it in your pocket, and be a good 
girl. Goodnight.” 

, While he had been speaking he had dived into the pocket of his 
coat, produced a check-book, and written an order for fifty pounds. 
Then, dreading to hear any expressions of gratitude, he hurried out 
of the house. 

Sarah stood with the check in her hand till she heard the outer 
door close behind him. Then she slowly folded up the valuable bit 
•of paper, and proceeded to lock up diary and letters in the deed- 
box, which she carried up stairs to her bedroom. 


CHAPTER YI. 

KATIE Cargill’s secret. 

Early on the following morning (the 18th) Mr. Lyon rode leis- 
urely out to Mavisbank. It had been his custom to take this ride 
very frequently of late; and he always went away with head bent 
and brow contracted in thought, and generally returned with face 
brightened and head erect, as if the exercise agreed with him amaz- 
ingly. - 


A HARD KNOT. 


29 


* His groom, however, who occasionally accompanied him on these 
journeys, attributed his master’s healthful appearance on his return 
rather to the sunshine of Miss Cargill’s beauty than to the etfects of 
the exercise. 

That there was some truth in the groom’s theory was apparent, 
from the fact that on the mornings when Mr. Lyon failed to meet 
the lady, or failed to see her at the house, he returned without the 
bright look. In that condition he had returned for the last eight 
mornings, and his servants, who, of course, knew as much of his 
wooing as he did himself, nodded their heads and agreed that the 
master had not seen his lady. So far they were right. Mr. Lyon 
had not encountered Miss Cargill for the past eight mornings; and 
at the house he had been informed that she was slightly indisposed, 
and could not receive anybody. 

Consequently on this, the ninth morning, he started with a graver 
face than usual. He passed by Partick Church, and on approach- 
ing the entrance of Mavisbank his eight disappointments were for- 
gotten in the delight of seeing Miss Cargill riding slowly along, fol- 
lowed at a distance by her groom. 

He joined her immediately, and together they rode towards Kil- 
patrick, he eagerly scanning her face to note to what extent she had’ 
suffered from the indisposition which had been the explanation he 
had received of her inability to see him, and congratulating her 
earnestly on her recovery. 

The pallor of the beautiful girl’s face indicated that she had suf- 
fered much more from the indisposition of the past eight days than 
Mr. Lyon had expected. He had understood, from the answers he 
had received at the house to his daily inquiry, that she had been at- 
tacked by some slight cold or other trifling ailment which was in ' 
no respect of a serious character. He saw now that her illness had 
not only been serious, but had been even dangerous ; at any rate, he 
leaped to that conclusion, and he was troubled proportionately by 
his own imaginings of what the delicate creature must have en- 
dured, He was perplexed, too, by the odd way in which she evaded 
every question as to the nature of her ailment. 

• She laughed gently at his grave looks and earnest questions, as- ' 
sured him thatjshe had suffered nothing save a slight headache — 
that, in short, her illness was not worth speaking about. 

But even while she was saying this, and while the smile was still 
lingering about her lips, a shade passed over her brow and dark- 
ened her eyes. It seemed as if the matter were of the gravest im- 
port, and she desired to conceal the fact that it was so. When he 
suggested this, she laughed, but the laugh was not the clear, musical 
sound he delighted to hear; it was ^arp and hysterical to some ex- 
tent. ■ . 


30 


A HARD KNOT. 


Apparently conscious of this herself, she touched her horse with 
her dainty, gold-mounted whip, and attempted to conceal her agita- 
tion by setting off at a canter. Mr. Lyon accommodated the pace 
of his horse to that of the lady’s, and they turned in the direction of 
the house. 

Mr. Lyon did not attempt to speak again until Miss Cargill slack- 
ened rein. The exercise had flushed her, and, as she turned her 
face to him, smiling, she looked more like the Katie of a fortnight 
ago, than she had done during the last half-hour. His perception of 
this only served to suggest to him that her indisposition had been, 
and was, mental, not bodily. A twinge of pain shot through him 
as he thought of the probable cause — love; for, in his condition, he 
could associate her with nothing but the tender passion, and innu- 
merable rivals to himself. 

‘ ‘ Do you know papa is to be home this evening ?” she said care- 
lessly. 

“lam glad of that, for I am anxious to speak to him on a sub- 
ject of some interest to you and to myself — or, rather, I should say, 
to renew the subject of a conversation I once had with Mr. Cargill.” 

He was getting a little confused, and he gripped the reins so tight- 
ly that there was a chance of the horse going backward instead of 
forward. 

Katie regarded him with a quick, scared look, as if she dreaded 
that he had discovered some secret. 

“ Of interest to me?” she said, hesitatingly. 

“Yes, of much interest to you, and — But are you ill. Miss Car- 
gill?” 

“No, not at all — do not mind me. I am a little weak — that is 
all. We will turn into the park, if you please.” 

She made the proposition with so much abruptness that Mr. 
Lyon, in his surprise, forgot his own confusion. He had expected 
her to ride on to the lodge, and her sudden preference to enter by 
the small side gate of the park struck him, as if she were afraid of 
any stray passenger catching anything of their conversation. 

At a motion of her whip the groom rode up, and opened the gate. 
Mr. Lyon and the lady passed through, and the groom respectfully 
fell behind again. 

The stately oaks, elms, and beeches shook their branches to the 
sharp breath of the wind; the birds sustained a merry concert; and, 
with the lowing of cattle, and the voice of a distant laborer occa- 
sionally shouting to a comrade — these were the only sounds which 
broke the pastoral quietude of the place. Everywhere the lordly 
demesne proclaimed the power and wealth of its master. The care- 
fully trimmed hedges and borders; the fat, lazy kine and the sleek 
horses grazing in the paddock; the very grass, in the richness of its 


A HARD KNOT. 


31 


verdure — everything seemed to bear on its front the golden stamp 
of the millionaire proprietor. 

And yet here was the future mistress of all — young, beautiful, ap- 
parently having every means of happiness at her back — pallid and 
affrighted at the suspicion of the discovery of the great sin which 
was oppressing her young life. 

Mr. Lyon did not observe this with sufficient minuteness to form 
any opinion regarding it, further than that something unusual had 
occurred to annoy her. He did not rest for more than a second 
even upon that, for he was busy trying to arrange the best way of 
expressing a declaration and question which had often been on the 
point of his tongue before, and as often postponed. He was deter- 
mined tha^ there should be no more delay, and he was unexpectedly 
helped towards his purpose. 

“You were saying,” she observed presently, with an assumption 
of indifference which was too transparent to hide the real impor- 
tance she attached to the answer — “you were saying that you in- 
tended to speak to papa about something of interest to me as well 
as yourself, Mr. Lyon ?” 

“ Yes, it concerns you nearly, and, indeed, it rests with 3"ou 
whether or not I shall speak of it again.” 

“ With me ?” 

“ With you; for, in fact — that is, in brief — ” 

He paused, and looked at her with a half-sad smile at his own 
awkwardness. 

“ I am afraid,” he said, in a low, earnest tone, “ that I would make 
A bad advocate, however poor a judge I may be. But I have had 
no experience in — in this sort of thing. I express myself badly; 
suppose I try to speak not for myself, but another — say, a friend of 
mine. Well, this friend. Miss Cargill, has known you for several 
years, and is regarded by your father as, in some respects, an inti- 
mate friend. He has observed you closely, endeavored to read your 
mind, and to understand your heart.” 

He made another pause, as if half expecting her to speak; but she 
remained silent, her lips closed, and her eyes widened slightly in 
surprise. 

“In one word, Katie,” he said, with a tender earnestness which 
raised him beyond the hesitation of the lover in a first confession of 
his passion, “I believe that I could make you happy, as I know that 
you would make me happy, if you would become my wife.” 

“ Your wife, Mr. Lyon !” 

She seemed for an instant relieved from the burden of her fright, 
but presently her head was bowed forward on her breast, and he, 
bending to observe her anxiously, saw that tears were forcing their 
way from her eyes down her cheeks. 


A HARD KNOT. 


My dear Miss Cargill, have I said anything to offend you or 
pain you ?” he exclaimed, in a startled voice. ‘ ‘ I am so awkward. 
Heaven knows my love is too sincere ever to have been uttered, if I 
had guessed that its utterance w^ould have pained you.” 

“Oh, I am miserable, miserable !” the poor girl sobbed, and the 
tears, no longer restrained, glistened dowm her pale cheeks. 

“ And I have made you so !” 

He uttered the words chokingly, for this w^as even a worse recep- 
tion of his honest avowal than he had, in the moments of greatest 
timidity, anticipated. It was a bitter lesson to read, that the woman 
he loved was distressed by the mere mention of his attachment. 

“No, no, Mr. Lyon; it is not you w^ho have made me so. Ah ! 
do not misunderstand me — you who have been so good and true a 
friend to me — you who have obtained from me the confidence and af- 
fection of a sister ; it is not you who have brought this sorrow to me !” 

“Sorrow to you! what sorrow?” 

‘ ‘ I cannot explain it ’now ; I cannot tell you any more than that 
its cause has made me fear to-day that it may tear from me your es- 
teem and respect.” 

“In Heaven’s name, what can you mean? You are trembling; you 
are pale as death. I beseech you, set my mind at rest, and tell me 
wiiat afflicts you!” 

A shudder seemed to pass over her frame. 

“ I dare not yet, for another’s sake.” 

He echoed the words mentally, never dreaming what a terrible 
import they w^ere to assume, and regarded her with astonishment 
the while. At length — 

“I will not press you on this subject, since it distresses you; but, 
at least, you will satisfy me in regard to another matter. Your fa- 
ther approves of my offer; may I speak to him again?” 

“It is useless,” she faltered, turning away her head. 

“You mean at present,” he added eagerly; “but at some future 
time—” 

“No,” she interrupted sadly; “what you desire can never be. 
All the respect, all the love a sister could give, I have already given 
to you, Mr. Lyon. I can never give you any more. ” 

“Never!” he repeated wistfully. 

“You will understand me better when I tell you frankly that I 
have intrusted my future already to another’s care.” 

The answer pierced his heart keenly, and he could only mutter 
the word “another.” 

“Yes, one to whom I am bound by bonds that can never be 
broken.” 

“You mean — ” 

“ Alick Tavendale.” 


A HARD KNOT. 


33 


“Him! your cousin? Surely not. Your father will never ap- 
prove of such a choice.” 

“He cannot hinder me; or, if he will, then I can never he the 
wife of any other. I have been frank with you, and surely that 
will prove how much I esteem you. I only wish that I had been 
able to show you this sooner, that I might have spared you what I 
know you must be suffering now on my account.” 

He had lost the little color his face usually possessed; his lips 
trembled, and his eyes were fixed straight before him, as if he were 
trying to see something at a distance. Her head was still bowed, 
and though she had removed the traces of her tears she still wore 
an expression of deep grief, almost as if she would have answered 
him differently had she not been restrained by some influence that 
was stronger than her own wishes. 

By and by he started from his painful reverie, and, bending tow- 
ards her, laid his hand gently on hers. 

“I thank you, Katie, for many happy hours, many bright dreams, 
which have made my life happier,” he said gently; “ I have wakened 
at length to the knowledge that it was a dream. No matter, I am 
content, and the memory of that dream will always be dear to me, 
although I will not disturb you again by referring to it.” 

“You know what it is to love, Mr. Lyon?” she said simply. > 

“I do indeed; and, believing that you too know the trust, the 
depth, and constancy of love, I feel 'my own is hopeless. Hence- 
forth I am your friend — your brother — in every act and word; no 
more, whatever I may be at heart.” 

“You will forget, I hope,” she said, falteringly. 

“Forget! impossible. You are a thousand times dearer to me 
even now, when I am hopeless, than you can ever be to — ” 

He stopped ; for he was unable to pronounce the name of Taven- 
dale. He added huskily : 

“ And you will always be dear to me. I will say nothing of what 
has passed between us to Mr. Cargill.” 

“ Thanks, thanks!” 

“I will come here as rarely as possible without giving cause for 
gossiping tongues to hint that there has been a rupture. And what- 
ever happens, Katie, trust me, you will find in me one who will 
gladly give his life to serve you. For the rest, I have courage, 
Katie, and I can endure.” 

She pressed his hand gratefully as he withdrew it. 

“Your friendship may have a severer test than you can antici- 
pate. But, for the present, try to forgive me what harm 1 may have 
done you without intention.” 

“ I do sincerely. I will not go farther with you now; if you will 
pardon me, I will turn down the avenue and make for the town. I; 

2 * 


34 


A HARD KNOT. 


feel that I need to be alone for a little while, and I can only find 
solitude and solace in my study. Good-bye ; when we meet again I 
will be calmer. Good-bye.” 

They had entered the avenue as he spoke, and he now turned his 
horse’s head in the direction of the lodge; while Katie continued 
her way to the house. 


CHAPTER VII. 

THE CRIMINAL DENOUNCED. 

Mr. Lyon had ridden half-way down the avenue at a smart trot, 
when he passed a gentleman who bowed to him, and whose salute 
he returned in a somewhat distant manner. 

The gentleman was on foot, and was walking towards the house. 
His pace was leisurely, and his whole bearing suggested a careless, 
half-lazy, half-indifferent disposition. He was about twenty-eight 
or thirty years, with dark-brown curly hair, tawny complexion, 
handsome features, and well-knit figure. His eyes w^ere dark hazel. 
His attire was elegant, although not foppish, and he was smoking a 
cigar with an amber mouthpiece. His visage and general bearing 
would have impressed one at first sight with the idea that his was 
one of those cool, philosophic temperaments which nothing can dis- 
turb; but a second glance revealed that there was sterner stuff be- 
neath this placid exterior. 

He smiled good-humoredly as Mr. Lyon rode by; the latter bit his 
lips and frowned as soon as he had passed. 

“I do not like Alick Tavendale,” he muttered, quickening his 
horse’s pace ; ‘ ‘ and yet I know nothing evil of him. Heaven forgive 
me, but I feel as if I hated him, because I know she loves him.” 

He set his teeth almost fiercely, and as soon as he had passed the 
lodge-gates he started at a quick gallop along the road for the city, 
as if he were trying to run away from the unhappy thoughts and 
feelings which were tormenting him. 

“I was a fool,” he reflected as he rode, “to think that she could 
ever have thought of me as a husband— I, who am about fifteen 
years older than herself ; but then I am only about four years older 
than Tavendale. Ay, but there is the difference; he can play the 
gallant, and gratify the thousand petty little whims and fancies of a 
woman, while I, in my abstraction and blindness to the trivial ac- 
complishments of life, seem cold, dull, and callous. But which of 
us would sacrifice most for her real happiness? Which of us would 
be steadiest in the devotion which makes daily intercourse a delight? 
Not he — not he.” 


A HARD KNOT. 


35 


With these bitter thoughts he had galloped nearly four miles, when 
he suddenly checked his horse, and, with knitted brows, repeated 
the words of Katie : “One to whom I am bound by bonds that can 
never be broken.” 

“ Yes, she loves him deeply, and I do not believe he is worthy of 
her love. Do I say that because he is poor? No; but I feel that 
because he is not earnest. His life has no purpose, no aim ; and he 
is content to dawdle away his time in the counting-house of Mr. 
Cargill, not because he knows himself useful there, but because he 
obtains his salary without the necessity of doing much work for it. 
Bah! it is contemptible, and he is unworthy of her.” 

Another half-mile nearer to Woodland Road, and again he mut- 
tered to himself — this time with a grave, anxious curiosity : 

' “What can her secret sorrow be that weighs so heavily upon 
her? Is it her fear that her father may discover her love and re- 
move Tavendale? It must be that, for there is nothing else that 
could agitate her so deeply. She has trusted me; I will be faithful 
to her trust, and that, at least, will soothe the pain of her rejection.” 

When he reached his house he was informed that a gentleman 
had been waiting for him for the past hour. On entering the library 
he found John Hadden. 

“ You are earlier than I expected, Mr. Hadden,” he said, after hav- 
ing greeted the detective. “Have you made any fresh discovery?” 

“I think I have made the discovery w^hich brings me within 
arm’s length of the criminal.” 

“Already? Impossible!” 

Hadden rubbed his hands together with an air of the greatest 
satisfaction at the sight of the magistrate’s astonishment. 

“Everything is possible, Mr. Lyon; and I beg to repeat that I am 
within arm’s length of the assassin. ” 

“ Then I shall proclaim you the sharpest detective that ever has 
been or will be in the force,” said Mr. Lyon, smiling at the satis- 
faction of the good man. 

“That’s not it — my sharpness has nothing to do with it,” said 
Hadden, quickly. “ Providence has done everything.” 

“You are modest, Mr. Hadden; but I am anxious to learn what 
you have discovered, and how you have succeeded so soon. Be 
seated.” 

John Hadden drew a chair close to the table, pulled out his big 
pocket-book, and produced various memoranda. 

“If you will excuse me, Mr. Lyon, I would like to obtain your 
opinion before I mention any names; so that, at first, I will tell you 
simply the circumstances which have satisfied me as to the motive 
of the crime and the perpetrator of it.” 

“ Proceed in your own way.” 


36 


A HARD KNOT. 


Then the detective, referring only occasionally to his notes, with 
a marvellous precision and lucidity narrated all that he had learned 
from Sarah Burnett. He repeated the contents of some of the letters 
from memory, word for word with the original. 

“ On these letters,” he added, “rests the first part of my proof, 
for it is in the exchange of the children that we find the germ of the 
murder. One crime has begot the other.” 

“ It is a strange story,” said Mr. Lyon, thoughtfully, “ and I be- 
lieve you are right. If these letters are genuine our course is clear.” 

“IVe got one of them here, in order to prove the writing, in the 
first place.” 

“ You have not done so yet?” 

“ No, but you can help me to do that.” 

“ Most willingly. But now, whose hand do you think struck the 
blow? Surely not the young lady who finds herself about to be 
dragged from her high position?” 

‘ ‘ Oh dear, no ! The blow was not struck by her, nor by her father 
either, though one of them has been instrumental to the deed. ” 

“But who was the actual perpetrator?” 

‘ ‘ I told you at the first the murderer was a young man, elegant 
and cool. I said just now that I was within arm’s reach of him. 
You shMl know why.” 

“I attend.” 

“I slept little last night— indeed, I walked about till after two 
o’clock, and then went to bed. I was up again at five, and com- 
menced my search. By half-past ten o’clock I had completed my 
inquiries, and this was the result : 

“The gentleman I have referred to as the millionaire has a 
nephew, who is the son of the sister of the millionaire. The sister 
made what one may call a bad match, and was estranged from her 
family in consequence. Her husband died, leaving her in poor cir- 
cumstances, with her son to support as best she could. 

“For the sake of her son she appealed to the millionaire, her 
brother; and he, either softened by time or his sister’s prayer, edu- 
cated the boy, and when he had grown up placed him in his count- 
ing-house. Meanwhile the sister died, and the young man was left 
without any relation in the world, save his master and benefactor, 
and his master’s daughter. 

“The young man, however, is disposed to be indolent; takes 
every advantage of his position in the counting-house as the nephew 
of the proprietor, and does as little work as possible. He amuses 
himself by lounging about on every occasion when he can escape 
from the office,, and he is very partial to Havana cigars, which he 
smokes with an amber mouthpiece. 

“ The impression among his comrades is that he believes that his 


A HARD KNOT. 


•37 


uncle will provide for him in his will; and in the meanwhile, to 
make sure of that, he has been secretly making love to his cousin. 
The lady happens to have a maid — a discreet woman who knows the 
value of a sovereign, and from whom I obtained the main part of 
my information. Well, this maid, who of course is intimately ac- 
quainted with the affairs of her mistress — who, to some extent, 
makes her a confidante — this maid informs me that the young gen- 
tleman has prospered in his suit, and has obtained his cousin’s 
promise to marry him, if the consent of her father can be had. ' 

‘ ‘ He has not yet sought that consent, and the maid believes that 
he wants her mistress to marry him in secret, and ask her father’s 
consent afterwards. She won’t agree to that, and meanwhile they 
meet frequently in the gardens or the park. 

“Now comes my argument. The lady, having been made ac- 
quainted with her real position, is in distress. Her father being 
absent, she does not see which way to turn for support and counsel. 
What more natural than that she should confide the whole story to 
her lover, having implicit trust in him? She tells him, at any rate, 
and he sees the position of the lady cannot be affected without in- 
juring him. But he sees at the same time that if the proofs pos- 
sessed by Jean Gorbal could be destroyed, the rest might be ex- 
plained Or defied. 

“ Better than all that, he sees that if he could be the means of re- 
moving Jean Gorbal’s proofs, he would at once change positions 
with his uncle, and he would have the power to demand what at 
present he dare not ask. Jean Gorbal removed by him, he would 
become the husband of a beautiful wife and the heir to a million. 

“It took him five days to make up his mind to this course, and 
on the sixth day — that was the 15th of the month — he acted. He 
murdered Jean Gorbal and burned the papers she had carefully 
kept, as the ashes I found in the grate proved.” Hadden’s visage 
glowed with triumph as he finished, and he fixed his eyes on the 
magistrate to read the effect of his singularly conclusive argument. 

“The evidence you have collected points to the nephew as the 
probable assassin. But you have nothing yet sufficiently positive to 
implicate him in the crime — nothing to prove that he was in Port- 
Dundas on the 15th — ^nothing, in short, directly to connect him with 
the deed.” 

“ That we shall find ” 

“How?” 

“Issue a warrant to search his lodgings and to arrest him, if 
necessary. In the lodgings you will find, perhaps, the weapon with 
w'hich the blow was struck; and, at any rate, the fiscal can compel 
him to show where he was on the evening of the 15th from six or 
seven o’clock till midnight.” 


38 


A HARD KNOT. 


“ We -will get that done, certainly. And now you can tell me the 
names of the parties, ” 

“ Surely. The first, the lady who has unknowingly been the chief 
instrument in the unravel ment of this dark business, is at present 
known as Miss Sarah Burnett, daughter of Mrs. Burnett, Hill Street. 
The name of the young lady who at present usurps her place is 
Miss Katherine Cargill.” 

“ Good Heaven ! It is impossible !” cried the magistrate, bounding 
to his feet. 

“How? Why impossible? Are not the proofs under our hands? 
But I knew you would be amazed. I grant it is an almost in- 
credible affair. But the proofs — the proofs, Mr. Lyon, cannot be 
denied. The name of the father of the young lady is Mr. Robert 
Cargill, of Mavisbank House; and the name of the assassin is Alick 
Tavendale, the dependent nephew of the millionaire.” 

Mr. Lyon stood stupefied with amaze and horror, his eyes wide, 
and fixed on the detective, while his lips mechanically formed the 
names — 

“Katie Cargill! Alick Tavendale!” 

“Precisely. They are the persons that must supply the final ex- 
planation, and — but are you ill, Mr. Lyon?” 

“No, no,” he answered, scarcely knowing what he was saying. 
“I am well enough, but the surprise, the shock — ” 

“I understand, sir; I know that you are acquainted with Miss 
Cargill and her father, and that was one of my reasons for desiring 
to conceal their names until you had had an opportunity of form- 
ing an opinion on the facts I have produced,” 

“ Will you excuse me for a few minutes, Mr. Hadden? I will 
return to you immediately.” 

“I will wait, sir.” 

Mr. Lyon went out to the garden, and choosing a pathway which 
was screened on either side by carefully cut walls of Evergreens, he 
walked up and down, with hands clinched behind him, thinking 
over the terrible position in which he found himself. He was 
bathed in a cold perspiration, although his brain burned at fever- 
heat, and his pulse throbbed violently. 

Here was the woman he loved with the devotion of his whole 
nature denounced as the accomplice of a murderer; here ^vas the 
man he had only a little while ago said to himself he hated, de- 
livered into his hands as an assassin; and here was he himself, a 
magistrate, bound by conscience and his office to punish crime with- 
out regard to persons, called upon now to vindicate his honor and 
worthiness of his office, by handing over the being he would have 
died to serve to the jailer, and to give her lover to the hangman. 

He would have been more than human had he not felt the thought. 


A HARD KNOT. 39 

the desire, flash through him to save her, and to let Tavendale perish 
as he deserved. 

“Impossible!” he mentally exclaimed, flushing at the dishonorable 
thought ; ‘ ‘ even if I could save her from shame by sacrificing my own 
life and honor, would I not be guilty of a double crime in robbing 
Sarah Burnett of her rights? No. Heaven help me! I dare not 
do that, and I have not courage to proceed.” 

He understood the cause of Katie’s illness; he knew now her* 
secret, and he understood the meaning of her answer, when he had 
asked her to trust him: “ I dare not yet, for another's sake." 

And again : 

“I am bound to him by bonds that can never be broken.” 

“I see it all now, I see it all,” he groaned; “but oh, merciful 
powers ! it is impossible that she can be an accomplice in this deed. 
It cannot be. I will not believe it till she tells me with her own lips 
that she is guilty. How answer the proofs then? He must have 
told her after the deed was done, and so implicated her. But why 
did she not denounce him? Not because she feared to lose her po- 
sition — no — no — no — but because she loves him, unworthy as he is. 
Ah! what will a true woman not do for the man she loves!” 

For half an hour he continued his troubled promenade up and 
down the screened path. He had not even then arrived at any sat- 
isfactory conclusion; but he had brought his emotion under control, 
and he was outwardly calm. 

He returned to the library, where John Hadden was waiting pa- 
tiently, busy in the examination of a large tome of legal reports. . 

“I have decided, Mr. Hadden,” said the sheriff, in a steady voice; 

‘ ‘ we will take no decisive step until to-morrow at noon. Meanwhile 
you can get one of the men to keep Tavendale in view — let him not 
lose sight of him. For the lady I will be responsible.” 

“ You, Mr. Lyon!” ejaculated Hadden, evidently not quite pleased 
by the delay. 

“Yes; my reasons for what may seem to you dallying with the 
case are good ones. ‘ First, I wish to receive a report from Captain 
Mactier, which I am certain to have by to-morrow; and, next, I de- 
sire you to obtain some proof that will associate Tavendale more dis- 
tinctly with the murder than any you have got at present, before we 
make him aware of the charge against him, by issuing a search-war- 
rant. Lastly, I wish to compare Mr. Cargill’s writing with that of 
the letter you have got. Remember, he occupies an important posi- 
tion, and we must approach him with due caution, and some respect 
— for even the most circumstantial and convincing proofs will some- 
times err.” 

“I bow to your decision, Mr. Lyon. No doubt you are right. 
Here is the letter you require.” 


40 


A HARD KNOT. 


“I will return it to you to-morrow.” 

“Thank you, sir. To-morrow, at noon, I will be here, and I will 
bring with me the proof we need. The measure of his foot will suf- 
fice for that.” 

“ Before you go, Mr. Hadden, permit me to congratulate you sin- 
cerely on the result of your exertions. I am convinced— although I 
should gladly feel otherwise— that you are right when you say you 
*are within arm’s reach of the criminal.” 

“I have no doubt, myself; but at the same time, Mr. Lyon, you 
understand that the discovery has been made by Jock Sly — not Had- 
den.” 

“I will remember.” 

“ Thank you, sir,” said Hadden, and respectfully took leave. ' 

Mr. Lyon sat down, leaning his elbows on the table, and buried 
his face in his hands. The work before him was repulsive and hor- 
rible to every sentiment of his nature, but there was no hope of evad- 
ing it; and, however much he might suffer in doing it, he was not 
a man to fail in his duty. 


CHAPTER VHI. 

L. HEWITT, WRITER, GEORGE STREET. 

The clocks were striking two, afternoon, when Sarah Burnett, as 
she must continue to be called for the present, to avoid confusion, 
turned out of Buchanan Street into George Street. She entered the 
passage of a grave, dingy-looking building, which was occupied 
from top to bottom as offices. She ascended one flight of stairs, and 
halted at a door upon which was a brass plate, with the intimation, 
“L. Hewitt, Writer.” 

She opened the door and entered. 

An exceedingly sharp boy, with short legs, seated on a stool with 
long legs, turned his head to see what was "wanted, and, in doing 
so, revealed the fact that his neck w^as encircled by a broad, white, 
and painfully stiff collar. Observing his visitor, the sharp lad, with- 
out waiting to inquire name or business, jumped from his perch, 
rushed to the door of Mr. Hewitt’s private room, threw it open and 
announced, 

“Miss Burnett.” 

She was dressed in a long black cloak, and a modest bonnet of 
dark color; and as she glided noiselessly through the outer office 
she had the appearance of a demure Quakeress, only the light in 
the eye was a little too keen for a young lady of the Society of 
Friends, and the mould of the features a little too hard. 


A HARD KNOT. 


41 


' The hoy closed the door when she had entered the room, nodded, 
grinned, and winked to himself, as if he understood all about it; 
then wheeled round and remounted the stool with a spring, as if 
he had been going to play leap-frog over it and had stopped half- 
way. 

Mr. Hewitt rose to salute his visitor with the calmness of one who 
had been expecting the visit. 

He was a gentleman over thirty years of age, tall, slim, and of 
easy bearing. His features, although prominent, did not seem strik- 
ingly so, in consequence of his fair complexion. His hair was of a 
sandy hue, with a red tinge, curly, and cut short; his eyes were of 
a faint gray color; and his eyelashes were scarcely perceptible. He 
invariably bore a suave, pleading smile, and displayed two rows of 
very fine white teeth. It was a face which one would have had 
difficulty in deciding w^hether to like or dislike at first. 

His general bearing and appearance gave one the same impres- 
sion; he had all the air of one moving in the best society, and he 
was dressed with the utmost precision and in the most fashionable 
style. Yet it was impossible for an ordinarily experienced person: 
to meet the man without entertaining a suspicion that his outside 
was not a true representation of his real character. 

A third or fourth meeting with him, however, generally re- 
moved this impression, and among the many who knew him he, 
was regarded as a trustworthy gentleman, most earnest and indus- 
trious in the pursuit of his profession. 

He had entered the office of one of the old legal firms of the city 
as a message-boy, and by hard, persevering exertion he had raised 
himself to his present position. He was therefore a man to be re- 
spected and admired. 

“At last you have come,” he said, in a low voice that would- 
have puzzled one to say whether the tone were that of anger or 
delight. He took her hands, while he stooped and touched her 
brow with his lips. 

There was no enthusiasm, not the faintest ray of passion on either 
side, and they were the coolest brace of lovers propriety could wish 
to see. 

He placed a chair for her by the window, which was the part of 
the room farthest from the door. She seated herself, but he re- 
mained standing, and alternately observed the evolutions of a quill, 
which he was twirling between his fingers, and the dark face of 
Sarah, 

“Were you anxious for me to come sooner?” she asked, as she 
seated herself ; but it was the tone of one who desires to learn the 
nature of some possible event, rather than that of a lady gratified to 
find that her lover has eagerly awaited her coming. 


42 


A HARD KNOT. 


“Well, I have been wishing to see you, of course, Sarah; for, 
knowing the state of trouble you are in, I cannot help feeling anx- 
ious about you.” 

They were sympathetic words, but there was not a note of sj^m- 
pathy in the man’s hard voice. 

’ “Then you have discovered nothing since I saw you? Have you 
tried?” 

‘ ‘ Can you doubt that? I watch every movement as the cat watches 
a mouse, ready to spring at the first signal of an attempt to elude 
me. I have learned nothing, however, save that Mr. Cargill arrives 
by the afternoon train from Liverpool.” 

“I thought he had been in London.” 

“ So he has; but he arrived in Liverpool yesterday, and remained 
there till to-day on some business connected with his American 
steamers.” 

“ What time does he arrive?” 

“At three-thirty.” 

“We will go up to the station. I have a fancy that I should like 
to see him once again, before he knows how affairs stand.” 

“As you please, Sarah. Have you got the money?” 

“ Yes, I have got fifty pounds. Will that do?” 

She handed him a roll of notes to the amount stated. She had just 
obtained them from the bank as payment of John Hadden’s check. 

Hewitt counted them slowly, speaking the while: 

“ I find that the process will be somewhat expensive, unless a 
happy accident of some sort occurs to help us; and I have already 
explained to you that I have not got a farthing. There are fifty 
here.” 

Sarah looked thoughtfully at the fioor, and her eyes rested va- 
cantly on the shining patent-leather boots which encased the neat, 
small feet of her lover. 

“When that is exhausted,” she said, slowly, “I do not know 
where to get more. We must borrow it somewhere; but we will 
think of that when the time comes.” 

“In the meanwhile, have you thought over what I said?” he 
queried, while he placed the notes in his purse. “ Do you not see 
that, as your husband, I shall be able to act with more boldness 
and decision in forcing your claims to a legitimate issue?” 

“Yes, but you would act under the suspicion of an interested 
party; and so your labor would lose half its effect. No, Laurence, 
no ; we will wait till I have obtained my proper place as heiress of 
Mavisbank, and then — I am yours.” 

Still not the slightest warmth in her tone; and he bowed his head 
gravely, as if the decision had been one of the most ordinary char- 
acter in his practice. 


A HARD KNOT. 


43 


“I have thought of that; and as you have delayed so long, per- 
haps it will be better as you have decided. I will act for you in all 
respects as earnestly as if j^ou were already my wife. For my re- 
ward I will wait.” 

“You can trust me?” 

A brief pause ; then slowly, and with a peculiar expression in his 
faint gray eyes— an expression of power and of will to use it — he an- 
swered deliberately : 

“Yes; I can trust you, Sarah.” 

“ I will be faithful. We play for a high stake, Laurence. Let no 
doubt or misunderstanding between us mar the fortune that is be- 
fore us. Will you come now?” 

“In a moment; there is plenty of time, and I wish to finish this 
letter before going out.” 

lie seated himself at the writing-table, and rapidly completed the 
epistle which had been interrupted by the entrance of Sarah; he 
sealed the letter, took his hat and umbrella, and told the boy that if 
anybody called he would be in again at four o’clock. 

Then he accompanied Sarah to the Queen Street station, and on 
the way he posted the letter. 

The train was not due when they arrived at the station, so they 
promenaded slowly up and down in'front, conversing low and ear- 
nestly. They came to an abrupt standstill, when, a couple of min- 
utes before the train arrived, a carriage drove up to the station. 

“ It is my sister Kate,” said Sarah, bitterly, directing her compan- 
ion’s attention to the pale, fair young face within the carriage. 

At that moment the shrieking whistle and the loud-panting engine 
were heard. Then there was a rush of passengers and porters, cabs 
and wheelbarrows; and through the midst of the bustle, noise, and 
confusion a tall, dignified-looking old gentleman advanced to the 
carriage, and was eagerly greeted by its occupant. 

“That is Mr. Cargill,” said Hewitt, with a faint, peculiar smile, as 
the old gentleman stepped into the carriage. “He looks pretty well 
for his age.” 


CHAPTER IX. 

THE MILLIONAIRE AT HOME. 

With the calmness of a man conscious of his own greatness, Mr. 
Cargill accepted the obsequious attentions of the railway officials 
and his own attendants. With a cold, stately inclination of the 
head he acknowledged the warm salutation of his daughter, as, with 
an air of dignified abstraction, he took his seat by her side. He 
could not kiss her— he could not even smile to her in such a public 


44 


A HARD KNOT. 


place; for it seemed as if he thought the character of a millionaire 
would sutfer irreparable damage if it revealed anything human to 
the vulgar gaze. It was a rule of his that respect could only be ob- 
tained by keeping everybody at a respectful distance, and his bear- 
ing effectually carried out his theory. 

He was a tall gentleman, and, although verging on sixty years, he 
was erect as a young officer of the Guards; only his head was usu- 
ally bent slightly forwards, as if the weight of thought were too- 
heavy for the brow. His hair was thin and iron-gray ; his features 
long and sharp; his eyes somewhat of a pale reddish hue, and glis- 
tened like a cat’s. Briefly, in appearance and manner he possessed 
a certain reserved dignity, which perpetually reminded every one 
with whom he came in contact that this was the millionaire. 

As soon as he had seated himself the carriage drove away ; and as 
it passed the place where Sarah and Mr. Hewitt were standing, the 
former shielded herself from observation by placing her companion 
between her and the vehicle. 

“Come,” she said, sharply, when the carriage had disappeared,' 
and clutched Mr. Hewitt’s arm tightly; “I must go back to Hill 
Street; to-morrow we will learn something definite.” 

“Yes, to-morrow,” responded Mr. Hewitt, in his dry, decisive 
way. 

They leisurely retraced their steps ; she leaning on his arm, with 
her head bowed in thought; he, with head erect, and eyes keenly 
observant of every passer-by, as if challenging the world to question 
the propriety of his conduct. 

The carriage had nearly performed half its journey to Mavisbank 
before Mr. Cargill even regarded his daughter with more than the ' 
most casual observation. When, however, at length he did so, he 
was struck by the exceeding pallor of Katie’s visage, and the deep 
sorrow which was so plainly revealed there. 

“You are looking ill, my child,” he said, in a cold, sharp voice, 
but with a movement of his heavy white eyebrows which intimated 
the alarm his tone failed to indicate. “ What is the matter ?” 

She was startled, apparently by the abruptness of the question, and 
rejoined confusedly: 

“Nothing, papa — that is— I will explain by and by. Leave me a 
little while to enjoy the sense of your presence, and — and to prepare 
for what I have to tell you.” 

Another movement of his eyebrows, but not another word until 
they reached Mavisbank. At the entrance he asked her to alight, 
and, with the politeness of an old gallant, gave her his arm to con- 
duct her into the house. 

The domestics, in their glittering livery, were ranged in two lines 
in the hall to receive their master. The latter glanced at them as he 


A HARD KNOT 


45 


passed along, as if to make sure that they were all in becoming 
state for the reception of so great a personage ; and, satisfied on that' 
head, paid no further heed to any of them. There was no word on 
his lips, no smile on his visage, to betoken that he regarded them as 
fellow-creatures, capable of feeling love or hate. They were paid 
to serve, and when they had served there was nothing more between 
them and their master. 

The great man was punctilious in the observance of all the de- 
tails of social courtesies, and dined in as much state when only his 
daughter was at table with him as on any of the rare occasions 
when his grace the Duke of Lomond accepted his hospitality. 

Consequently, an hour was occupied in dressing for dinner; and 
when he descended from his private apartment he met Katie on 
the threshold of the dining-room. They entered together. Two 
silent and powdered domestics placed the chairs for them ; the but- 
ler was at his post, and another hour was occupied in the ceremo- 
nious despatch of the repast. 

The chamber was vast, with high, painted ceiling. The furni- 
ture was of the richest and most luxurious kind money could ob- 
tain; and, altogether, the place and its surroundings would have de- 
stroyed the appetite of anybody unaccustomed to them. 

At length dessert was served, in a style becoming the other ar- 
rangements, the domestics retired, and Mr. Cargill, sitting in digni- 
fied ease on his chair, sipping his wine, was left alone with his 
daughter. 

He made several attempts to interest her by describing the numer- 
ous presents he had purchased for her in London, and which would 
arrive at the house that evening; but although she forced herself to 
smile, it was a sad smile; and although she thanked him for his 
indulgence, it was in such a low, weary tone that he became some- 
what irritated, and apparently uneasy. 

“What has happened to you, Katie? You answer me as if you 
were sorry rather than pleased to know how I have been thinking 
of you during my absence. Speak, child, what is it?” 

She was startled, hesitated, and then stepped quickly over to him,^ 
and, placing her arms round his neck, rested her head on his shoul- 
der, sobbing. Mr. Cargill’s sharp features underwent a spasmodic 
twinge, as if the most sensitive part of his body had been hurt. 
He smoothed the fair silken hair of the girl with his hand, while' 
his brow darkened in alarm at what might be to follow. 

“This is very odd, Katie,” he muttered presently, trying to as- 
sume a tone of simple remonstrance; “very odd. You say you are 
not ill, and yet, instead of being, as formerly, merry and happy at 
my return, you are sad, as if I brought misfortune with me— ah! I 
remember, you have something to explain to me. What is it?” • 


46 


A HAKD KNOT. 


She tightened her arms around his neck, and seemed to be striv- 
ing hard to subdue her sobs. 

“Whatever happens, dear, dear papa,” she responded brokenly, 
“I will always love you, always treasure the memory of your good- 
ness to me, and never blame you.” 

He was silent ; his visage had gradually become of an ashen hue, 
and his thin lips quivered, while his eyes glistened more redly than 
usual. Abruptly, even harshly: 

“ Speak, Katie, let me know your trouble.” 

Tremblingly came the answer: 

‘ ‘ I have read the letters you -wrote years ago to Mrs. Burnett, and 
I know all the sad story connected with them.” 

His form shook as with a violent galvanic shock ; he stared 
straight before him, and there was a long pause — a stillness in the 
room, disturbed only by the sobs of the girl. 

The secret which had been so faithfully kept on all sides for 
twenty-one years had crept to the light at last, and the millionaire’s 
sin had found him out. Useless now to regret and curse the stupid- 
ity which had permitted him to leave the fatal letters in the hands 
of his accomplice. Useless now to repent the indiscretion which 
had permitted these documents to exist a moment after they had 
served the purpose for which they were written. Useless all; the 
crime and its Nemesis had arisen against him after many years, and 
in the midst of his wealth and dignities he must be pointed at as a 
man to be avoided and contemned, although he was a millionaire. 

For the moment he felt as if he would readily have changed posi- 
tions with his own butler. 

Pride, and his faith in the potency of his gold, came to the rescue. 
He defied the world and its scorn as boldly as he had, years ago, 
braved it. But even in that spirit of defiance there was a serpent’s 
tooth ; for when he would have raised himself in cold dignity, and 
said, “Not a word more of this,” his tongue refused to move, and 
his heart ached in dread of the contempt of the daughter he loved 
dearly, and for whose sake he had risked all. Her scorn he could 
not bear. 

She had not raised her face from his shoulder, and he spoke with- 
out shifting his position, for'he dared not look at her. 

“When did you see these letters, and where ?” he said huskily, 
but calmly. 

“I saw them here. They have been discovered by Sarah Bur- 
nett— that is, Sarah Cargill— and she came to see you. Not finding 
you, she gave them to me.” 

“ And you burned them ?” he cried, with sudden excitement. 

“Burned them? No!” 

She raised herself as she made the response. 


A HARD KNOT. 


47 


“What! you held these letters in your hands, and you did not 
destroy them? Oh, fool! fool! I should not have left that for you 
to do.” 

Kate was surprised by the bitterness and passion of his manner, 
but more by the suggestion of the dishonorable act which apparent- 
ly would have pleased him. Her face became flushed with shame, 
and she drew back a pace from him. 

He seemed to divine her thought and to shrink under her gaze, 
although he still avoided meeting it, for he attempted to defend 
himself against the indignation he feared she felt, and was about to 
express. 

“Don’t speak — don’t speak, Katie. Ah, my child, it is a heavy 
punishment to bear when the parent stands before his child, his head 
bowed with shame. You blame me, I know; and you will hate 
me — ” 

“Father, father, hush!” she cried, laying her hand on his mouth. 

He went on excitedly : 

“But you -cannot know what I have suffered during these long 
years in which the secret has been hidden. Do you think I have 
not ached in heart and brain for the wrong I have done my wife? 
Do you think I have not been tortured by thoughts of the child 
whose position and name I had stolen for you? I have — bitterly.” 

“It is not too late to atone,” whispered Kate. 

“ I have prospered in my dealings,” he went on, not hearing her. 
“Wealth and honors have poured in upon me. Gold, gold, gold, 
has come in streams to me, but it has brought me no pleasure. I 
have built churches, I have thrown thousands to the charities of the 
world, and men have pointed to me as the benefactor of my race. 
But it has brought me no peace of mind. I have been shuddering 
day and night under the burden of my sin, and your smiles and your 
love, my child, have been the only gleams of comfort my heart has 
known.” 

“They are always yours, dear father, happen what may.” 

“ They are — they shall be!” he cried fiercely. “ Since I have en- 
dured so long, I will endure to the end. They shall not take you 
from me. This thing they talk about is false; the letters they have 
shown you are worthless. They can prove nothing against me, 
since Largie is dead.” 

‘ ‘ But Jean Gorbal ?” 

“Ah !” he started at the name. “ She is dead, too.” 

Katie was staggered by that unexpected announcement, and her 
exclamation of mingled regret and surprise seemed to restore her 
father’s self-possession, for he filled his glass with wine, drew his 
chair a little closer to the table, and raised the glass. 

“It is as I say— the poor woman is dead,” he said, with some- 


48 


A HARD KNOT. 


thing of his ordinary cold firmness; “and Sarah Burnett shall re- 
main Sarah Burnett. Whatever she wants she shall have; but you 
shall remain my daughter, Katie Cargill.” 

“ No, father, no!” she cried, her eyes brightened and face flushed 
with the love of truth and devotion: “your wealth, your name, 
your position, all belong to Sarah by right, not to me, and I renounce 
them all. Your daughter I shall be always, but Katie Cargill I am 
no more,” 

“You are mad!” he cried, starting forward in his chair, one hand 
clutching the edge of the table desperately, while from the other the 
wine-glass he had been raising to his lips dropped to the floor and 
was smashed. 

“Not mad, father — not even foolish,” she said, strong in her re- 
solve to do right. “I am only trying to be just to that good lady 
who loved me and cared for me as her daughter, and whose memory 
I eherish as that of a dear mother. I cannot and will not stand in 
the place of her child ; and so far as I may I will make atonement for 
the crime to which I have innocently been made a party. Do you 
care for my love ? Then you will not attempt to hinder me in this. ” 

. “Kate, my child, if you are not mad yourself you will make me 
so. Think of the shame, the disgrace, you will heap upon me; 
think how you will bend my head before the world, and make me a 
finger-mark for the scorn and contempt of all whose esteem I value 
most. ” 

“That you must endure, dear father, as I must endure the pang 
of changing places with my sister,” 

“ You shall not do it, I say — by Heaven you shall not!” 

“I know that what I am about to do should be done,” she said, 
covering her eyes with her delicate hand, as if to shut out the spec- 
tacle of his rage and pain; “and not even my regard for you will 
hinder me.” 

“You have been deceived, I tell you; this story is all a fabrica- 
tion, arid I will crush its promulgators as I do the fragments of that 
glass under my heel.” 

He ground the broken glass furiously as he spoke. He was un- 
accustomed to opposition of any sort, and the persistence of Katie in 
her resolution roused him beyond measure. But even at the height 
of his fury he was subdued and abashed by the sad, sweet face and 
the reproachful eyes. 

“You are not speaking truly, father; and — ah, no! I will not be- 
lieve that you could hide your sin by perjury.” 

“ You have grown bold,” he began, angrily, but he broke down; 
“ I am confused, Katie, by all this. Go to your room, my child, for 
a little while, and let me think over it.” 

The. pitiable tone with which the proud man confessed his weak- 


A HARD KNOT. 


49 


ness touched her more than the loudest protestations could have 
done. She advanced to him softly, and, laying her hands on his 
shoulders, kissed him affectionately. 

“ Dear father, there is only one course for us to pursue, and that 
is the course to which duty and repentance point. Atonement for 
the past has been too long delayed; we must make it now,” 

She moved quietly from the room, leaving him with head bowed, 
in silence, chagrin, and sorrow. 


CHAPTER X. 

LINK BY LINK, 

Exactly at noon on the following day John Hadden presented 
himself at the door of the sheriff -substitute’s house in Woodlands 
Road. He was immediately ushered into the study, where Mr. 
Lyon was prepared to receive him. 

The detective’s face was, as usual, covered with a simple smile of 
subdued curiosity at everything he saw; only his eyes twinkled with 
self-satisfaction. But Mr. Lyon w^a^ very pale, and looked decid- 
edly ill. It was evident that he had slept little during the previous 
night, for he seemed fatigued, and his eyes were slightly bloodshot. 

You are punctual, Mr. Hadden,” he said, with a faint smile. 

“Yes, sir; I have come at the hour appointed to ask for the war- 
rant of arrest. ” 

“ Then you have made some further discovery?” 

“I have; not much, certainly, but enough, I think, to justify de- 
cisive measures.” 

“ Captain Mactier has also made a discovery.” 

Hadden’s eyes twinkled, not with surprise, but mirth, as if he an- 
ticipated a joke. 

“I would be glad to know, sir, if you will permit me, what the 
captain has discovered.” 

“Assuredly. I received his' despatch this morning; and I must 
say that its contents appear to me of more importance than I had 
anticipated. ” 

“ Captain Mactier is a vigilant officer,” said Mr. Hadden, humbly. 

“ He is, indeed, although sometimes deficient in discrimination, 
and always dogged in his opinion. In the present instance, how- 
ever, you will find that there is some reason in his argument. At 
any rate, the result of his exertions will add to our knowledge of 
Jean Gorbal’s private affairs, and thereby draw us the closer to the* 
identity of the perpetrator of the trime.” 

“Just so, sir.” 


8 


50 


A HARD KNOT. 


Mr. Lyon produced a packet of blue foolscap, endorsed on the 
back with red ink. He unfolded it, and showed the statement, 
written in a neat round hand, with particular passages underlined 
in red ink. On the first of these passages Mr. Lyon laid his fin- 
ger. 

“ He says here that on arriving at Carron he was for some time 
batfled by failing to learn what boats had passed through on the 
night of the murder, as the man who had then been in charge of the 
locks had been dismissed on the succeeding day for some misde- 
meanor, and had gone to Liverpool immediately afterward. 

‘ ‘ Captain Mactier, after making various inquiries in Carron and 
Edinburgh, late yesterday evening found him. The man's name is 
Bill Johnston, and his information is to this effect: There is a man 
called Bob Little, who is master of a barge known as the Elizabeth. 
The captain is satisfied that this is the same Bob Little to whom a 
boy carried a message from a man who wore earrings.” 

“Ah — what of him?” 

“You will hear. On the morning of the 15th — that was the day 
of the crime — Little passed through Carron to Glasgow with his scow 
unloaded. There was a man lying at the stern on a tarpaulin, smok- 
ing, and drinking ale from a can. He was not one of Little’s assist- 
ants, for he had only two, and they were with him as usual. Be- 
sides, he paid some degree of respect to the man on the tarpaulin, 
and Little appears to be one of those rough fellows who pay respect 
to nobody, unless they have some immediate gain in view, or are 
compelled by circumstances to be respectful. 

“ The former was evidently the reason of Little’s respect, for the 
stranger treated him with a species of contemptuous familiarity, and 
caused him to jump ashore to get more liquor and tobacco. John- 
ston cannot remember how this stranger was dressed; but he did 
recollect noticing that a handkerchief of blue-and-white check pat- 
tern lay beside him, as if he had taken it out for use, and had either 
forgotten it, or had been too lazy to replace it in his pocket. Late 
that night — the 15th — Bob Little again passed through Carron with 
his scow. The strange man was not with him. Johnston had asked 
what he had done with his queer chum. 

“ ‘ Sent him to blazes,’ Little answered, sulkily, and, as Johnston 
thought, drunkenly. 

“ The captain was anxious to bring to Johnston’s memory the ear- 
rings of the strange man, but failed. Johnston had not observed 
them, and did not think the man had any, or he would have been 
sure to have noticed them. The captain thinks it possible that some- 
thing more may be learned from this witness, and meanwhile he is 
in pursuit of the Elizabeth and Little, whom he expects to lay hands 
upon before to-morrow.” 


A HARD KNOT. 


51 


Hadden’s long fingers played with the thick, gold-mounted head 
of the stafi[ he carried, and his eyes were fixed on the floor. Pres- 
ently: 

“ Something there may be in this, as you say, Mr. Lyon, and it is 
just possible that, though we blind creatures can’t see how, at this 
minute. Captain Mactier may have taken up tlie case at another end, 
and is, maybe, just advancing to meet me half-way and complete the 
proof.” 

“ Then you think it probable that his pursuit will lead him to the 
same person you have reached?” 

“I do, and this is wdiy: on the 12th— that was three days after 
Sarah Burnett had been at Mavisbank House, and which was about the 
time you might allow Miss Cargill to make up her mind to relieve 
herself somewhat of her trouble by telling her lover all — Mr. Taven- 
dale returned to his lodgings in Sauchiehall Street late at night. Ilis 
manner was so excited that Mrs. Marshall, his landlady, thought he 
had been drinking more than usual. He would not take any supper, 
and went to bed. 

On the morning of the 13th he rose about six o’clock, being two 
hours before his ordinary time of rising. At half-past six he entered 
his sitting-room to procure his hat, which he had left there on the 
previous night. The servant girl, Lizzie Dunn, was cleaning the 
room, and she thought he looked very ill. She asked him if she 
should get some breakfast for him, and he answered: 

“ ‘ No; I don’t feel well. I am going for a walk. Perhaps I shall 
not return till evening.’ 

‘ ‘ He went out, and did not return till twelve o’clock at night. He 
was very quiet, and went to bed immediately. On the following 
morning he again went out between six and seven o’clock, still look- 
ing unwell, and scarcely speaking to Mrs. Marshall, who, on this oc- 
casion, met him in the lobby. She hoped he was better, and he an- 
swered hurriedly : 

“‘Yes, yes; much better. It’s only a little indigestion. I’ll be 
all right again in a day or so.’ 

“ He did not return till ten o’clock that night. Then he took a 
hearty supper, and drank two large glassfuls of brandy with hot 
water. When the things had been removed from his table he told 
the servant not to disturb him again until morning, as he was going 
to be very busy. He opened his desk, and began to write a letter. 

“ Mrs. Marshall and her servant went to bed a little after twelve 
o’clock, and Mr. Tavendale was still in his sitting-room writing. 
About three o’clock in the morning Mrs. Marshall awakened, and 
she heard Mr. Tavendale passing to his bedroom. 

“ He did not get down to breakfast next morning — the 15th, ob- 
serve, sir — till after nine o’clock. He seemed to be in much better 


52 


A HARD KNOT. 


health than he had been during the two days, and made a jest of his 
illness to Mrs. Marshall. He asked her to get a man for him to carry 
a letter to Mavisbank, Her son, a sharp lad, about sixteen years of 
age, was at home, and she suggested that he should be the mes- 
senger. That seemed to please him ; and when the lad was 
brought into the room he gave him a letter addressed to Miss Car- 
gill. 

“ ‘Don’t give it to anybody but Miss Cargill herself,’ he said; ‘if 
she is not at home when you arrive, wait for her, no matter how 
long, and come back as quick as 3mu can with an answer. Here is 
money for the ’bus.’ 

“The lad went away on his errand. Tavendale then bon’ow'ed 
five pounds from Mrs. Marshall, as he said he was that sum 
short of an account he wished to pay that forenoon. She had on 
previous occasions lent him money, which he had repaid, and she at 
once gave him a five-pound note. He thanked her, and folded it up 
with a roll of other notes. 

“ ‘ It’s a heavy account, I see, Mr. Tavendale,’ said Mrs. Marshall. 

‘ I wish you had been owing it to me. ’ 

“ He gave what his landlady calls a ‘ jerky ’ and an uncomfortable 
laugh. 

“‘Yes, it’s heavy^,’ he replied; ‘but it’s just as well you’re not 
the creditor.’ 

“ She laughed, and he at the same moment placed the notes in an 
envelope without address, and sealed it up. She observed it par- 
ticularly, because she thought it strange that he should put the 
money in an envelope if he were going to pay it away immediately. 
He put the envelope containing the notes in his pocket, with two 
letters which were stamped and directed for the post. He went out, 
saying he would return before young Marshall could be back from 
Mavisbank. 

“ Between two and three o’clock he returned, but the lad had not 
arrived yet. Dinner was served, and Tavendale dined, apparently 
with a good appetite. Again he took a couple of glassfuls of brandy 
and hot water, and lit a cigar. Young Marshall arrived' at last. He 
had seen the lad^", and she had told him to say ‘ there was no an- 
swer. ’ 

“Tavendale was apparently deeply chagrined and disappointed. 
He mixed more brandy and water, and remained for an hour smok- 
ing and drinking alone. 

“At the end of that time a man, who had the appearance of a 
servant or a waiter, arrived with a note. Tavendale tore it open 
hurriedly, and both Mrs. Marshall and the girl Lizzie Dunn heard 
him say: 

“ ‘ She can’t — she can’t resist.’ 


A HARD KNOT. 


53 


“ He read the letter several times, and then he burned it.” 
Hadden was interrupted here by the entrance of a domestic to an- 
nounce the arrival of Inspector Speirs. 

“ Show him in,” said Mr. Lyon. 


CHAPTER XI. 

THE WARRANT. 

Tile inspector presented himself, bowing respectfully to the magis- 
trate and familiarly to Hadden, addressing the latter: 

“ Our man has gone out to Mavisbank.” 

“You have him attended, of course?” 

The inspector nodded. 

“ All right;” and Hadden turned to the magistrate to explain: 

‘ ‘ I told the inspector to come to me here, if our man moved from 
the office of Cargill & Company before I returned. Now I will 
finish my statement. I left otf where he had just burned the let- 
ter.” 

He referred to the note-book he had on the table before him, and 
resumed: 

“ That was about five o’clock. His spirits seemed to have revived 
amazingly under the influence of the letter, and he busied himself 
preparing to go out. At half-past five two friends of his, named 
Frank Mackie and Duncan Milne, arrived, and he did not seem 
pleased by their visit. They were going to the theatre to see Powrie 
in ‘ Rob Roy,’ and they pressed him to accompany them. He ex- 
cused himself, on the ground that he was obliged that evening to 
keep an important engagement he had previously made. 

“ His friends went away, and in about a quarter of an hour after- 
wards he went out, smoking a cigar and carrying a silk umbrella. 

“ He did not return till nearly three o’clock in the morning. Mrs. 
Marshall had waited up for him, as he had forgotten his latch-key. 
She was struck by the paleness of his face and its queer expression. 
He seemed to be shivering with cold, and she observed that his clothes 
were wet, as if he had been out in the rain which had fallen during 
the evening. 

“ She asked him if there was anything he would like to take. He 
said, ‘ No, nothing,’ and he spoke so hoarsely that she thought he 
had caught cold. While she was giving him a candle, the police- 
man, making a round of his beat, passed the door, and at the sound 
Mrs. Marshall thought he started, and shivered more than before. 
She is positive that he turned his head quickly, and asked if she had 
fastened the door. Then he went up to his bedroom, and in walking 


54 


A HARD KNOT. 


she observed that he staggered once or twice, so that she concluded 
he had been drinking again. 

“It was after ten o’clock before he got up next morning. He 
complained of a violent headache, and looked very ill. He took 
nothing at breakfast save a cup of tea. He remained at home all 
day — this was Tuesday, you understand. 

“ Lizzie Dunn, in cleaning out his bedroom, found the clothes he 
had worn the previous evening lying in a heap in a corner. They 
were damp, and soiled with mud. 

“ Tavendale entered the room as -she picked them up, and seeing 
her with them, he appeared to be inexplicably annoyed. 

“ ‘Would you like these dried and brushed, sir?’ the girl asked. 

“ ‘No,’ he said— angrily, the girl fancied; ‘ pitch them into a cor- 
ner, and leave them alone.’ 

‘ ‘ He took something out of one of his boxes, and went back to his 
parlor. There he occupied himself in writing letters all day. He 
also burned a quantity of paper, for the ashes were found lying all 
over the fender and grate. 

“ In the evening, after dark, he went out. Mrs. Marshall entered 
his sitting-room, to arrange it before he returned, and discovered the 
ashes as I have described. She also found the morning’s newspaper 
lying unopened, just as she had left it on the side-table. This w^as 
an unusual occurrence, as Tavendale, well or ill, had hitherto been 
most particular about the delivery of the paper in the morning, and 
read it regularly. 

‘ ‘ He re-entered his lodgings that evening about half-past nine. He 
was quiet and silent. Ordinarily he was gay and jocular. He took 
a little gruel for supper, and was in bed by eleven o’clock. 

“Next morning — that was yesterday — he got up about his usual 
time, and professed himself all right again, and Mrs. Marshall saw 
that he looked much better; for although he was still pale, and his 
eyes restless, as if he were nervous about something, his manner had 
resumed its ordinary gayety and self-possession.” 

Hadden stopped, and looked at a few lines which were written at 
the foot of the page of his note-book, but, as if suddenly determining 
not to refer to these at present, he closed the book, and replaced it 
in his pocket. 

“ That’s all, sir.” 

The magistrate remained for several minutes in earnest reflection. 

“In what way do you associate this with the information w^e 
have received from Captain Mactier?” he asked presently. 

“By the notes which were enclosed in the envelope without 
address.” '.'v' 

“ The connection is not very clear.” 

“No; I grant that, sir, and it can’t be until we have discovered 


A HARD KNOT. 


55 


some of the notes. But, you see, on the forenoon of the 15th, Bob 
Little and his scow passed Carron for Glasgow. The stranger who 
was lying on the tarpaulin, and who, it is just possible, may be the 
man with the earrings Mactier is so dogged about, may have had 
something to do with the account Tavendale had to pay. That, 
however, is the merest surmise. I have no intention of working on 
the captain’s tack, but the absence of Tavendale from his lodging 
and his uncle’s office on two occasions, from early morning till late 
at night, suggests that he may have had dealings with some of these 
men. How far that may be correct we will learn after we have 
arrested our man. You or the fiscal will grant the*. warrant, sir, I 
hope?” 

“I can no longer refuse; the evidence more than justifies Mr. 
Tavendale’s arrest ; but I hope you will accomplish it as quietly as 
such a thing can be done, for, remember, the reputation, the happi- 
ness, of a lady is deeply concerned in this miserable affair.” 

“'VYc will show every respect, sir, and, if possible, we will delay 
the arrest till night, when we can take him quietly from his lodg- 
ing.” 

The sheriff signed the warrant of arrest, and handed it to Inspec- 
tor Speirs. 


CHAPTER XH. 

THE ARREST. 

One hour after dark a cab drove up Sauchiehall Street from the 
direction of the city, and stopped at the corner of Cambridge 
Street. 

There were three men inside, and two of them jumped out. The 
first was John Hadden, the second Inspector Speirs. The man who 
remained in the cab was a constable in plain clothes. 

“If you see us go up to the door,” said the inspector to the 
constable, “bring the cab up quietly as soon as we enter the 
house.” 

“All right, sir.” 

Hadden and the inspector crossed to the opposite corner of Cam- 
bridge Street. The latter blew his whistle. Out from the shadow 
of the houses appeared a man in answer to the summons. 

“ He has come back, then?” said the inspector to this personage. 

“Yes. Left Mavisbank at three, went to the office, came here at 
six, and hasn’t gone out since,” replied the man, briefly. 

“ Come with us.” 

The inspector, accompanied by Hadden and followed by his as- 


56 


A HARD KNOT. 


sistant, advanced to the door of a quiet, genteel-looking house, and 
knocked. 

The door was opened by the girl, Lizzie Dunn, who, on seeing 
the three men, stared as if she fancied there was something wrong. 
But she was reassured when Inspector Speirs asked, in a quiet, 
friendly way, if Mr. Tavendale happened to be at home. The girl 
supposed that the visitors were acquaintances of the lodger, although 
she had never seen them before, and answered promptly “that the 
gentleman was at home — would they step in?” 

The inspector glanced towards the cab, to see if it were approach- 
ing, and then entered the lobby, followed by Hadden — who was ap- 
parently disposed to keep in the background in the event about to 
take place — and the constable. 

The girl then desired to know what name she would mention. 

“ It’s of no importance,” said the inspector, nodding quite jocular- 
ly; “ none in the least. Mr. Tavendale would not remember the 
name, it’s such a long time since he heard it. Just say a friend.” 

The girl proceeded to Mr. Tavendale’s chambers, and in a few 
minutes that gentleman appeared in the lobby. 

Alick Tavendale’s ordinary mahlher was that of easy good-nature. 
Until within the last few days he had scarcely ever displayed the 
least excitability. He was apparently possessed of a large faith in 
the ultimate good of life, so that whenever anything went wrong he 
was not troubled or worried by the misadventure. He simply 
lighted his cigar, smoked, and waited for fortune to put everything 
in order again, and allow the machine to go on with its work as 
usual. He was never impatient, because he was never in a hurry; 
lie was never angry, because he had never found anything worth be- 
ing angry about. Consequently he was liked by the household, 
liked by his companions, and pitied by some as a useless creature, 
who would never do anything good in the world. 

His character had altered strangely during the past eight or ten 
days, for he had displayed bitter temper and irritable impatience. 
At present, when he appeared in the lobby, his tawny complexion 
was tinged with the pallor of anxiety, and his dark hazel eyes were 
bloodshot, as if he had slept little for several nights. Indeed, the 
expression of his countenance was, on the whole, indicative of 
troubled thought; and the thought which could have produced such 
a change in his character and habits must have been a very serious one. 

He seemed to be astonished at the appearance of the visitors, with 
whom he was wholly unacquainted. 

“ Did you desire to see me, gentlemen?” he said, politely enough, 
although he was not pleased by the prospect of an interview with 
entire strangers. 

“You are Mr. Tavendale?” rejoined the inspector. 


A HARD KNOT. 


67 


^ -“Yes.” 

The inspector respectfully laid his hand on the gentleman’s arm. 

“ I am sorry, sir, to trouble you, but, in the name of the law, you 
are our prisoner.” 

“Prisoner!” cried Tavendale, thunderstricken, and staring wild- 
ly at the men. 

Hadden watched his face narrowly. 

Recovering his breath, the prisoner stammered excitedly, 

“This is extraordinary! Of what am I accused? Why am I 
arrested?” 

“You are arrested, sir, on account of the unhappy affair of Mon- 
day night. ” 

“Monday night!” exclaimed the prisoner, more startled than be- 
fore, and in a low voice; “ then I am lost!” 

These unhappy words were heard by the three men, and made a 
deep impression upon them. The inspector heard a cab stop at the 
door outside at the moment he presented the warrant to Taven- 
dale. 

The latter perused it hastily, uttering exclamations of astonish- 
ment and alarm while he read. 

“This is nonsense,” he said, hoarsely, when he had finished; “ I do 
not see how you can associate me with this horrible crime — ” 

“You have read the warrant, sir, ” interrupted Speirs, “and we 
must obey it.” 

Tavendale made no response; he seemed to be overwhelmed by 
the accusation ; but he rapidly recovered his self-possession, as he 
reflected upon the unpleasant position in which he was placed. 

Hadden could not help pitying the man ; but that significant ex- 
clamation — Monday night! then lam lost !'' — left no doubt, if there 
had been any pending in his mind, that the murderer was in their 
hands. In the suddenness of the arrest the truth had been pressed 
from him; and, however ho might afterwards strive to explain his 
words, they stood recorded against him, to his confusion. 

“Will you please walk inside with us, Mr. Tavendale?” said Had- 
den, opening the door of Tavendale’s parlor. “We must search 
your chambers before we leave. Anything we may find compromis- 
ing you we will use in evidence; but we warn you not to make any 
statement about them, for whatever you say will be brought against 
you.” 

‘ ‘ I thank you, sir, ” Tavendale replied ; ‘ ‘ but your warning is 
needless. I have already determined to remain silent until a proper 
time for speaking arrives. You do your duty. I shall not give you 
any trouble.” 

“A very sensible decision,” commented the inspector; “a very 
sensible decision. Goon, Jock.” 

3 * 


58 


A HAKD KNOT. 


Hadden entered the sitting-room, followed by Tavendale; with In- 
spector Speirs and the constable. 

Looking around, the chambers showed every sign of being the abode 
of a bachelor. On the walls were a number of pictures, framed and 
unframed, most of them having for subject a sporting scene. Others 
were of the highly poetical kind — representations of ideal beauties 
which young men so much affect. Hung between the pictures were 
articles of a most miscellaneous kind. Here was a riding-whip, 
tossed carelessly on a peg ; there, a fancy hat, which had been bought 
in a hurry and as hurriedly cast away; there was a pair of boxing- 
gloves hanging by the thumbs; there were a variety of foils and 
fencing-masks, which at once reminded Hadden of the instrument 
with which he supposed the crime to have been committed. 

On the floor was a litter of all sorts of things which it might be 
imagined likely for a young, careless, and fortunate bachelor to 
possess. Prints of all kinds — good and bad ; books of the same de- 
scription, shut and open, piled oh top of each other in miniature 
stacks, or scattered singly, where their owner had dropped them 
after a glance at their contents. 

In addition to the bachelor-like appearance of everything, there 
was over all a certain grotesqueness of aspect which gave a charac- 
ter to the place not always to be found in such quarters. 

“Just a bachelor’s den,” muttered Hadden to himself as he en- 
tered; “and just the kind of place to pick up a little more evidence 
in. That litter on the floor contains another link in our chain.” 

He put forward his hand as he spoke and touched several articles 
on the wall, moved the pictures outward and looked behind them, 
felt the fingers of the gloves, seriously examined the fencing-masks, 
and reached down one of the foils from its peg. 

“Very pretty things to play with, I doubt not,” he muttered; 
“but one of these would be dangerous if — Umph!” 

Without finishing the sentence he ran his eyes down the blade as 
he spoke, rubbed the dust off it with his fingers, then set it back in 
its place. 

' “ That, at any rate, won’t tell us much,” he said, and moved on a 
step. “ But here now — what is this? A foil broken. And where 
is the part broken off?” 

The object of these questions was a foil similar to the one already 
examined, but with this difference in condition — about one-third of 
its length was broken off, and the broken part was nowhere to be 
found. 

Hadden searched all round the room, and could not find it. 

“I neither know how it has been broken nor where the broken 
part may be found,” said Tavendale, hurriedly. 

With a strange look at the broken instrument, but without any 


A HARD KNOT. 


59 


observation on the prisoner’s statement, Hadden set it aside careful- 
ly, and went on with his examination. 

He lifted the books from the floor and the chairs, caught them by 
the backs, and shook them edges downwards, so that anything in- 
side might drop out. If by chance a piece of paper fluttered to the 
floor, he caught it up, and scanned it eagerly. 

“You will pardon me,” he said, turning to Tavendale, after hav- 
ing done this for the third or fourth time. “ It is our business to find 
out secrets, but not to reveal any, except those which are needed. 
Anything I find not touching the matter in hand will be as safe 
with me as if it had never reached my eyes.” 

“I have no doubt, sir. I do not object to the search, or to your 
manner of conducting it. Pray go on. ” 

Hadden looked at the speaker sharply, as if something peculiar 
had occurred to him; then he turned to his work and went on. 

But his labor among the books was to small purpose; no further 
link in the chain rewarded him. He steadily, however, continued 
the search, turning next to a heap of papers and periodicals, which 
were piled upon, and almost bore down, a little side-table. 

“ This is better,” he thought, as he turned up one or two odd 
things, which seemed of no avail, except that they pointed to some- 
thing else behind. Then, brightening up suddenly: “Ha! here is 
something! I will take particular care of this.” 

He pulled a pair of gray kid gloves from between the pages of a 
copy of the Daily Mail as he spoke, and, looking at them for a mo- 
ment, rolled them up carefully, and placed them beside the broken 
foil. They were soiled a good deal, and torn a little, but Hadden 
seemed to prize them all the more on that account. The gloves and 
the foil he now gave in charge to the inspector. 

Hadden next led the way to the second apartment, which, being 
Tavendale’s reception-room for visitors, was in much better order 
than the one they had just quitted. This rendered the vigilant 
search of the detective more easy and rapid. The result was not en- 
tirely barren. On the mantelpiece were several pipes— meerschaum, 
briar-root, and clay— also three cigar mouth-pieces. In one of the 
presses of the side-table was found a box of Havana cigars. 

Nothing else' was discovered there that could be associated with the 
business in hand by the wildest stretch of argument or imagination. 

They entered the bedroom, and as they crossed the lobby, Mrs. 
Marshall, pale with fright and horror, her son, undaunted by the 
presence of officials, and Lizzie Dunn, in open-mouthed bewilder- 
ment, appeared at the farther end. 

Lizzie had heard the conversation between Tavendale and the 
others in the lobby. She had hastened to tell her mistress, and now, 
in the utmost consternation, they were watching the proceedings. 


60 


A HARD KNOT. 


On entering tlie bedroom, Hadden began the search from the 
right-hand side of the door, and passed round, scrutinizing every 
article in the place minutely. Nothing escaped him; things that 
were most frankly revealed — and therefore, as one might have fan- 
cied, beyond suspicion — were submitted to as keen an inspection as 
things that were most hidden. 

In the corner, beside the washstand, he found a slim silk umbrella, 
with a patent ferrule, the point of which bore the marks of having 
been pressed into muddy earth. Particles of clay, now dried white, 
were sticking to it. 

From beneath the bed he dragged an old brown-leather portman- 
teau, which appeared to have performed many journeys, as its worn 
edges and the numerous railway labels pasted over it testified. A 
small brass plate on the side bore the name “A. Tavendale.” It 
was locked. 

“Have you the key, Mr. Tavendale?’' 

“No, I—” He checked himself and appeared to reflect; then, as 
if just remembering, “Yes, I left it on the dressing-table, and the 
girl told me she put it into one of the ornaments on the mantelpiece. 
I have not looked for it myself, but you will probably find it there.” 

He spoke as one under compulsion. 

The key was found in the centre ornament; the portmanteau was 
opened, and various articles of apparel were turned out upon the 
floor. The last article produced was a bundle, which, on being un- 
rolled, proved to be a black frockcoat, a light tweed vest, and 
trousers. 

These clothes were quite damp, as if they had been wetted recent- 
ly by heavy rain, or by being dipped in water, and had been rolled 
up without any attempt having been made to dry them. They were 
also somewhat soiled with mud, and the right knee of the trousers 
was torn. 

Hadden uttered a significant “umph!” as he rolled the clothes up 
into a bundle again. Once more he dived beneath the bed, and this 
time reappeared with a pair of French-leather boots which appeared 
to have been damp, to have been placed at the fire to dry, and, not 
having been watched attentively enough, had been burned and shriv- 
elled up. 

Hadden produced a foot-rule from his pocket, measured the soles 
of the boots, and then, uttering another satisfied “umph!” placed 
the boots on the top of the bundle of clothes. 

As he had proceeded in his search he had made a careful inven- 
tory in his notebook of every article of the slightest importance. 
He now closed the book, put it in his pocket, and rose to his feet. 

“I’ve done,” he said briskly; “we can go now. Dickson, you 
will take these articles with you.” 



A HARD KNOT. 


61 


Tavendale seemed to rouse suddenly to the consciousness that 
they were about to take him to jail. 

“One minute, sir ; I — ” he said huskily, “if it were possible, I 
wish — before you take me to — before you take me away ” — he could 
not say “to jail” — “I wish you could allow ine-to go — or go with 
me, I mean — to Mavisbank. This matter should be explained to my 
uncle by myself. It is a horrible mistake under which you arrest 
me. You will soon, I know, recognize the error; but, if it were pos- 
sible, I should like to see Mr. Cargill at once.” 

“Always the same cry — a mistake!” muttered Hadden. 

“I’m sorry, sir, but our orders are strict,” said the inspector, “ and 
we must take you with us at once, without permitting you to hold 
communication with anybody.” 

“It is hard!” exclaimed the unfortunate prisoner, bitterly. “I 
am innocent, and you treat me as if I were already condemned. 
But I submit.” 

And, clinching his teeth together, he bowed his head on his breast. 
They conducted him to the cab. They spared him the indignity of 
handcuffs. He sat beside the inspector, and on the opposite seat 
were Hadden and the constable Dickson, with the bundle of articles 
taken from the lodgings. The constable who had remained with the 
cab mounted the box beside the driver, and in that manner the pris- 
oner was conveyed to the jail. 


CHAPTER XHI. 

THE captain’s TACK. 

Later upon the same evening Captain Mactier, of the city police, 
walked rapidly through the busy streets in the direction of Port- 
Dundas. 

Few who passed him, and merely saw a tall, thin man, with sharp, 
keen features, and bright, restless, scrutinizing eyes, would have 
guessed the singular cogitations which were at work within that ac- 
tive brain — a brain that many a time had laid open the secret springs 
which guided the little dramas that came within the constable’s 
sphere of business. 

A sharp, business-looking man he was, with his surtout buttoned 
tightly up to his neck, and a small cane in his hand. Who would 
have recognized in this active, bright, commonplace-looking man 
the avenger of blood? 

Yet such was George Mactier at this moment; for he had never 
been crossed with a doubt as to his finally discovering the author of 
the horrible outrage at Port-Dundas. 


62 


A HARD KNOT. 


Up through the steep, narrow, and dark streets he made his way 
to the canal. 

Carefully, with those keen, watchful eyes of his, he ran over the 
size and appearance of the various craft before him. 

“There are two,” said he, “which resemble the description I have 
received ; I have no alternative but to try the one which lies near- 
est me.” 

So the captain descended to the scow. There appeared to be but 
one man on board, and he was seated, almost at the bow, on some 
tarpaulin, smoking a short clay pipe. He was a thick-set man with 
a low forehead, bushy eyebrows and beard, deep-set, cunning eyes, 
and forbidding expression of face. He wore a loose jacket over a 
red flannel shirt; his trousers were rolled up above his boots; and 
his rather ill-favored countenance was partially shaded by a large 
sou’wester. 

He looked angrily up as Mactier stepped on board. 

“Down, Rat, down!” he cried to a mangy-looking dog which 
seemed inclined to fly at the stranger. 

The dog slunk away, growling, into the after-part of the boat, and 
its master once more turned his attention to the stranger. 

“ Well, mate?” he said, in a surly tone. 

Mactier coolly went up to a small barrel which stood opposite the 
man, and seated himself thereon. 

“ I’ve come to have a talk with you, Mr. Little,” he said. 

“ How d’ye know my name’s Little?” asked the other, quickly. 

Mactier, of course, did not know that he had at length got the 
right man until this answer assured him of the fact. It required all 
his self-command to prevent a look of triumph entering into his 
eyes. 

“ Oh, I know it,” said Mactiei*, carelessly. 

“Very well then, and since you know it, what have you to say to 
me ?” 

“ I have got to ask you a few questions, that is all,” said Mactier, 
“and you needn’t alarm yourself.” 

“Alarm myself ?” said Little, with a shrug. “I’ll alarm myself 
about nothing. But I’d like to know by what right you come 
aboard this scow and ax me questions. ” 

Mactier paid no attention to this deflant remark. 

“You remember being over at Port-Dundas on Monday last, do 
you not ?” he asked. 

The man jumped to his feet and uttered a savage oath. 

“Do you mean to accuse me o’ that business ?” he cried, almost 
choking with passion; “for if you do, it isn’t your black coat and 
your polished boots as ’ll prevent me pitchin’ you into the water 
there!” 


A HARD KNOT. 


63 


“ My good man,” said Mactier, quietly, “ don’t make a fool of your- 
self. I don’t accuse you or anybody else of the atfair. I merely 
want to ask you some questions in the interests of justice.” 

“Well, well,” said the man, gloomily, resuming his seat, “don’t 
you accuse me o’ the atfair, that’s all I say to you,” 

“Now tell me,” continued Mactier, “you had a man in the boat 
that day, had you not?” 

Bob Little looked at his companion suspiciously and closely. 

“What do you mean by that question?” he asked. 

“Come, come,” said Mactier, “what’s the use of beating about 
the bush ? You know there was a man in the boat, and I can prove 
it. Why do you seek to deny it?” 

“ I don’t deny it,” he said at length, but with evident reluctance. 

“ There was a man with you— that’s settled; indeed, everybody in 
Port-Dundas knows it. Very well; was he dark or fair?” 

“Fair.” 

“You know him?” 

Little was evidently unwilling to compromise himself; but the 
confident tone of calm authority in which Mactier spoke had clearly 
impressed him. It is very unlikely that he would have answered at 
all had Mactier come to him insidiously, and begged for information 
as for a favor. 

“ Well, sir,” he said, “ I’d like to .know what you’re drivin’ at. I 
tell you I saw the account of the affair in the papers— leastways, one 
o’ my mates read it to me— and says I to myself, ‘ I’m glad I was in 
my boat on that day; they can’t suspect me.’ ” 

“We don’t suspect you, or I should not be here questioning you.” 

“Then you’re for the law, sir?” he asked, glancing cunningly at 
Mactier. 

“Perhaps I am ; but I warn you that your safest plan is to state 
everything you know about it. Innocent people have often got 
themselves into trouble by being shy to tell tales of their friends or 
neighbors; and I would advise you, as a friend, to clear yourself of 
all possibility of suspicion by simply stating everything you know of 
the business that took that man to Port-Dundas on Monday. You 
know him, you say — ” 

“ I didn’t say it,” said the man, cautiously; “but I don’t mind toll- 
in’ you that I do know him,” 

“His name, then?” 

“His name is Samuel Phillips.” 

“ What is his business?” 

“He’s a sailor.” 

“ Oh, then, it is he who wears the large earrings?” 

“How do you know that?” Little asked, exhibiting the greatest 
possible alarm. 


64 


A HARD KNOT. 


“Oh, we know a good deal about the affair,” said Mactier, smil- 
ing; “but we want to know more. He had a gray jacket, had he 
not? and he had a blue-and- white checked handkerchief?” 

Little was evidently agitated. The fact was, he had, out of mere 
cunning and aversion, given a false name to Mactier, and it now 
seemed to him that the captain knew everything about the man 
whom he had called Phillips, and that he (Little) would get into 
trouble through his duplicity. But, with the obstinacy of his dogged 
nature, he refused to confess. 

“ Since you know so much about him, what’s the use o’ cornin’ to 
me?” 

“Because I don’t know enough. You say his name is Samuel 
Phillips, and that on Monday last he travelled with you in your boat 
from Carron. Where did you leave him?” 

“At Maryhill.” 

“When?” 

“ On tiie same evening.” 

“Now, mind what you say. Bob Little, for this is a serious affair. 
Do you know where he is now?” 

This was in reality the testing question which Mactier had come 
to put; he held up his finger warningly, touching his lips with the 
leaden knob of his harmless-looking but deadly cane, while anxious- 
ly he waited for the reply which would fall from the man’s lips. 

“ I do know,” said Little, with a dogged decision; “he is in Liver- 
pool, and he’ll sail to-morrow morning, or the next day, for Aus- 
tralia.” 

Certainly this news was sufficient to awaken all Mactier’s energy 
and eagerness. 

“In what ship?” 

“The (^ueen Adelaide, I think, but I’m not sure on the name. 
However, you’ll easily get him, if you w'ant him; but I tell you he 
had no more hand in that business than I had.” 

“We shall see about' that,” said Mactier, reflectively; “and mean- 
while there is not a moment to be lost.” 

He turned to Little. 

“ Now,” said he, “you must take care not to breathe a syllable to 
a human being of what we two have been talking about. You have 
been of great service to me, and I shall not forget you. Will you 
come and have a dram now?” 

“I can’t very well leave the boat, sir,” said Little; “but if you’ll 
give me something to drink your honor’s health with — ” 

Mactier gave him a half-crown, and immediately went to prepare 
for his journey to Liverpool, not very sure how much to believe of 
what the surly, suspicious boatman had told him. 

He went round by the police-station, and, finding Inspector Speirs 


A HARD KNOT. 


65 


there, learned from him all that had occurred during his absence. 
The rapid strides Hadden had made astonished him ; but after the 
whole matter had been explained, with the circumstance of Taven- 
dale’s arrest, he simply shrugged his shoulders, and remarked dryly 
— not without a shade of envy, for he was really impressed by what 
he heard — 

“ Sly Jock will prove too sly for his own good some day. Good- 
night; Til be back the day after to-morrow, I expect, and then we’ll 
see who has got the right end of the stick.” 

“ Dogged as ever,” thought the inspector, as his chief departed on 
his important mission. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

WHAT CAN IT MEAN? 

Early on the following morning (Saturday) all the witnesses who 
were known or supposed to be able to give any information in re- 
gard to the Port-Dundas mystery wfere summoned to appear at the 
chambers of the sheriff, Mr. Lyon, on Monday. There was to be 
precognition of witnesses, and Robert Cargill, the millionaire, and 
his daughter Katherine, were summoned among the rest. The sum- 
mons was the first intimation Mr. Cargill received of his nephew’s 
position, and when it arrived he was still in the breakfast-room with 
Kate. 

Neither father nor daughter had again referred to the unpleasant 
subject of the previous day’s conversation ; but each was conscious 
that it was uppermost in the other’s thoughts. Kate was pale, silent, 
and sad ; her father was irritable to a degree, and he seemed to have 
aged more during the past night than he had done during the last ten 
years. 

His hair had grown white, his features pinched, and the lines un- 
der his eyes and about his mouth had become deeper and darker. 
He started with an expression of alarm even before he had touched 
the blue, legal-looking document which the attendant presented to 
him on a silver salver. 

Controlling himself, however, he took the paper and opened it. 
On doing so, the summons for Kate dropped out. The attendant 
picked it up, and presented it to his master. 

All the strength of his proud nature was required at the moment 
he rapidly perused the document to keep down the exclamations 
which rose in his throat. But he succeeded so far as to display no 
other sign of emotion than a nervous spasm of the thin lips. 

With his hand he signalled the attendant to withdraw; and, when 


66 


A HARD KNOT. 


the man had gone, the millionaire, clutching the paper^ spasmod- 
ically, sunk on a chair, covering his face with his hand. 

Kate had been standing near the window, apparently gazing out 
on the garden terrace ; but in truth she had been observing her 
father. Instinct, or the result of the strong grasp the subject had ob- 
tained on her mind, led her to associate her father’s present agitation 
with the revelation of Sarah Burnett. 

Bowed down in the shame of his sin, the great man was a specta- 
cle so pitiable to her that her heart yearned over him, and she felt as 
if at that moment she revered him more than she had ever done, 
although she was doomed to suffer so cruelly for his guilt. 

She wished to help him, she wished to soothe his pain ; but she 
did not know how. At length, softly: 

‘‘Has anything happened — ” 

She was interrupted. The sound of her voice seemed to have 
startled him from a trance, and he rose hastily to his feet. Frown- 
ing, he paced the floor with quick, agitated steps. 

She did not move from her position — she could not move, for his 
anger and emotion frightened her, and she watched him timidly. 

“ I told you that the woman, Jean Gorbal, was dead,” he said, in a 
low, vehement tone, while he continued his promenade; “but I did 
not tell you that — she had been murdered !” 

Startling as the revelation was to her in itself, something in his 
manner, something in his tone, sent an inexplicable thrill to her 
heart, and her eyes became flxed on his face. 

“ Murdered!" 

Her lips formed the word, but her tongue uttered no sound. Her 
whole frame quivered under the terrible suspicion which flashed 
through her mind. 

With a subdued scream she sprang away from the horrible 
thought, and clutched his arm desperately. 

“ What does it mean?” she gasped wildly. 

His own agitation seemed for the moment to be quelled by hers, 
as the boom of cannon is drowned in the roll of thunder, for so much 
stronger, deeper, seemed the passion of the girl than that of the man. 

“ Why do you look so strangely at me, child?” he said sharply, 
and avoiding her eyes; then, with an apparent effort, meeting her 
gaze: “ A man has been arrested, charged with the crime.” 

Her hands relaxed their grip slowly, her eyes drooped, and she 
drew a long breath, as of intense relief. She flushed, as if ashamed 
of the momentary suspicion which had forced itself upon her. 

As if divining and pitying her thought, he took her hands and ex- 
claimed : 

“You are perplexed by my agitation, when- only yesterday I 
seemed to be glad that — that ” — he faltered a little, despite himself — 


A HARD KNOT. 


67 


“ that the woman was out of the way. ' But you have not asked me 
why I am agitated;' you have not asked me who has been arrested.” 

“It cannot be any friend of ours,” she said quickly, her thoughts 
darting from one terror to another. 

“ It is a near friend — Alick Tavendale,” 

Staggering backward from him, she flung up her arms as if to 
shield herself from a blow. 

It was the father’s turn to gaze astounded at the daughter; but 
there was also in his gaze a curious expression of wrath at the con- 
firmation of a suspicion long entertained. 

As if she had been petrified by his announcement, she stood white 
and motionless, her eyes starting from her head. There was a still- 
ness in the room, oppressive as the momentary pause of tlie storm 
just before it bursts, 

A low, wailing, pitiable cry, like that of a child dying in acute pain, 
and she said, wringing her hands, swaying her body to and fro : 

“ Ah, why — why did I tell him? — why did I tell him ? But he is * 
innocent, he is innocent, and you must save him.” 

The latter words were uttered in a fierce outburst of passionate 
conviction. 

The father’s brow was dark, and his tone harsh as he responded: 

“ What have you told him ?” 

“All — all! It was my duty. But he is innocent — innocent, I 
say, and you must save him.” 

“You have yourself condemned him.” 

‘ ‘ I ? — ah no, ah no ! don’t say that, ” she cried, with pitiable sobs, 
and wringing her hands ; “don’t say that, for I am his wife, and I 
love him, and I had to tell him — my husband!” 

“Your husband!” thundered the father; but his wrath was 
checked, for she had fallen forward on a couch, and blood was run- 
ning from her mouth. 


CHAPTER XV. 

A woman’s confession. 

Furious and astounded as he was by his daughter’s confession, 
the spectacle of her prostration stifled the passionate words which had 
risen in the father’s throat. A second he stood as one who is paralyzed 
at the moment when every nerve is strung to unnatural strength by 
frenzy. With hand half raised, as if he had been about to curse her, 
mouth partly open, and eyes starting from their sockets, he stood 
dumbly staring upon her as she lay helplessly moaning on the couch, 
with the red spots marking the cushion. 


68 


A HARD KNOT. 


She had not fainted; she had been dazed, bewildered, overwhelmed 
by the distress of her position, and the necessity which called forth 
her confession ; but she had not lost consciousness through it all. 
It w^ould have been a glad relief to the poor girl if she had swooned; 
indeed, at the moment, in the bitterness of her heart, she prayed that 
she might die. 

But she neither swooned nor died; and she lay so enfeebled by 
her cruel excitement that she had scarcely strength to move a limb ; 
but all the while she was conscious that her father, dumb-stricken 
with indignation and scorn for her guilt, was gazing upon her, learn- 
ing, as she fancied, to hate her. 

The power of speech seemed to have left her, for although she 
longed to cry out to him to pity and forgive her, the tongue would 
not utter any sound, and the words faded in her brain unuttered, 

Mr. Cargill started as one from a nightmare, with a half-suppressed 
cry on his lips. An expression of terror flitted across his visage, 
and he hastily rung the bell. 

Instead of waiting until the servant entered the room, he hastened 
to the door, and passed out to the hall, as if to prevent the inquisitive 
eyes of the attendant observing the condition of Kate, and so provid- 
ing matter for gossiping tongues. 

When the door closed behind him Kate feebly attempted to rise ; 
she thought he had gone away from her, unable to endure her pres- 
ence, and she wanted to call him back. But she could scarcely 
move, and she could not speak at all. 

She was relieved of this dread immediately. As soon as Mr. Car- 
gill had directed one attendant to hasten in search of Dr. Lawson, 
the local surgeon, and another to send Miss Cargill’s maid, Easton, 
he returned to his daughter. 

Bending over her with his hard features fixed and expressionless, 
although pale and pinched-like, he Aviped her lips with a handker- 
chief, and raised her to a sitting posture. Piteously the poor girl’s 
eyes were raised to his face, as if to seek there some gleam of par- 
don or sympathy. But they found no response, not one ray. of light 
to break the darkness that had fallen upon her; nothing to indicate 
in the faintest manner how he was to treat her, now that he knew 
her to be the wife of his ungrateful nephew — the wife of a man who 
was at that moment lying in jail under the most serious of all charges 
with which the law has to deal. 

He observed her look, however, and spoke in a cold, unsympa- 
thetic tone : 

“ Do not say a word. I believe you have burst a blood-vessel, and 
speaking will only aggravate it. I can wait for whatever you may 
have to say. Obey, and be silent.” 

Her head dropped on her breast as Easton presented herself. The 


A HARD KNOT. 


69 


■waiting-woman glanced quickly at the two figures, and a light in her 
eyes denoted that she, by the help of some previous acquaintance 
■with Kate’s affairs, had at once comprehended the nature of what 
had passed. But, like a discreet woman, she masked her knowledge 
under a show of the greatest alarm for her young mistress. She ran 
towards the couch, raising her arms, and apparently about to give 
vent to her feelings of alarm in an exclamation of some sort. 

“ Stop!” said Mr. Cargill, sternly, and the discreet woman stopped, 
holding her head down, as if ashamed of her want of self-control in 
the presence of a millionaire ; but, at the same time, she was slyly 
glancing from father to daughter, in the effort to discover anything 
that might he amiss besides what she suspected. 

“You are a sensible woman, Easton,” said the great man, in his 
cold, hard voice. 

“I hope so, sir,” was the modest response. 

‘ ‘ Then you will understand me when I tell you that I do not wish 
any more noise made about Miss Cargill’s indisposition than is neces- 
sary. You know that I dislike fuss of any sort, and I dislike gossip- 
ing tongues still more.” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“ Your mistress has got a slight cold, and I have commanded her 
to retire to her chamber, and there wait the arrival of the doctor. 
Miss Cargill is not seriously ill, you understand, only weak. ” 

“I understand, sir.” 

‘ ‘ I trust that I may find you do. Come, Kate, are you able to walk 
with my assistance ?” 

He placed his arm round her waist, and raised her to her feet. 
She leaned heavily upon him, and without his support she seemed 
unable to stand. 

“Can you walk as far as your room?” he asked. 

An effort to do so was the only answer. With her father’s help 
on one side, and Easton’s on the other, she succeeded in keeping her 
feet as far as her own chamber. Then Mr. Cargill quitted her, and 
Easton rapidly disrobed her, and helped her into bed. 

Kate had not uttered any word yet ; and Easton murmured to her- 
self innumerable little exclamations of commiseration, in the hope of 
being able to obtain speech from her mistress, and by that means re- 
store a little of the animation she had apparently lost entirely, and 
gratify her own curiosity at the same time. 

But all her efforts were in vain ; an occasional low, heart-bursting 
sob was the only sound to which Kate gave vent. When she lay 
down in bed it was with the helpless submission of a child so weak 
that no movement of its own will was possible. 

Easton bustled about the apartment, arranging everything for the 
reception of the doctor, and muttering all the while to herself. 


70 


A HARD KNOT. 


Dr. Lawson arrived. He was a little, stout man, with a round, 
healthful, smiling countenance. He had been on various occasions 
summoned to Mavisbank, and, although not yet acknowledged the 
family physician, he counted upon obtaining that desirable position 
in the household of the millionaire by zeal and “strict attention to 
business. ” 

He was a good-natured little man, however, and, under any cir- 
cumstances, would have been just as attentive to a patient so inter- 
esting as the pale bonny Katie as he was now, with the large pros- 
pect referred to before him. 

He looked somewhat grave for the first few seconds, but bright- 
ened as he proceeded in his examination, and, conversing cheerily 
with the patient, or rather to her, for he would not allow her to at- 
tempt to speak, he proceeded with the various arrangements requi- 
site to stop the bleeding, and that he effected before he left her. 

A brief conversation with Easton enabled him to understand 
enough for his purpose; and after an hour had elapsed he gave the 
woman certain instructions, which she was to observe carefully till 
he returned in the evening. Then he proceeded down-stairs, and on 
his way a domestic stopped him, and informed him that Mr. Cargill 
desired his presence for a few moments. 

Mr. Cargill was pacing the floor, with hands clasped tightly be- 
hind him, when the doctor was shown into the room. He received 
him in a cold, stately fashion, and immediately desired to know the 
true condition of the patient. 

“ Some small blood-vessel given way, sir,” replied the doctor quiet- 
ly; “but as the bleeding has ceased there is no danger, unless—” 

“Well, sir, proceed.” 

“Unless anything should arise to cause excessive mental excite- 
ment, when I should say there would be very great danger to the 
patient’s life.” 

Mr. Cargill’s thin lips moved spasmodically, and he made half a 
dozen short, quick steps towards the window before speaking. Then, 
without raising his head or lifting his eyes from the floor : 

“Suppose it is necessary that she should be required to give an 
explanation of certain private matters of importance to herself and 
to me, when— on what day, at what hour— will she be strong enough 
for one to venture to speak with her on such matters?” 

“You may venture, sir, at any moment, but for the result I cannot 
be answerable.” 

“ Is she so very weak?” 

“ She has been for the last ten days, or more, rapidly sinking into 
a hopeless state of debility, as a consequence of excessive mental 
anxiety.” 

, “ Thank you. I wdll leave her in your hands.” 


A HARD KNOT. 


71 


The doctor bowed and retired. 

Mr. Cargill did not quit the house that day, or the next. He re- 
mained in the library alone, perturbed and almost despairing ; but 
in the presence of any one, cold, hard, and indifferent. Easton vis- 
ited him every hour with intelligence of the progress of the patient. 
On Sunday evening the doctor himself said that she had improved 
so rapidly that he was quite amazed. He could not say that he was 
satisfied, for he was afraid that the improvement was only apparent, 
and produced by nervous eagerness concerning something about to 
happen. 

The millionaire shrank from these words, for they reminded him 
of what was about to happen. To-morrow Alick Tavendale was to 
be examined before the sheriff, and all the long-concealed sin was to 
be raked out of the past, and exposed to the eyes of the world. 

He remained in the study throughout the evening, and in the dark ; 
for when the attendant had come to light the gas, he bade him, in a 
sharper tone than usual, to go away, and not disturb him again, un- 
less the bell rang. 

So up till eleven o’clock Mr. Cargill remained in the dark, com- 
muning with his own heart. What the proud man suffered, how 
the flesh was scourged and the spirit jacked for the sin that had 
found him out, none might know ; whatever happened, whatever the 
world might say, however much those whose smiles he valued — and 
they were not many — might scorn him, the pride of the man was 
strong enough to present a placid and unflinching surface. 

The wound was deep, but the black cloth of respectability covered 
it from the eye, and none might gaze upon it. 

That was evident when Easton tapped at the door, and, receiving 
a sharp permission to enter, presented herself, light in hand, as if she 
had been made aware, by some of the servants, that Mr. Cargill was 
in the dark. 

His eyes wavered a little under the flash of the light; but, that 
over, he regarded her with his ordinary look of dignified reserve. 

“Miss Cargill has sent me for you, sir,” she said respectfully. 

He started slightly, despite himself, and hesitated, as if doubtful 
whether to comply with th(J desire of Kate or not. 

“ Say I will be with her presently,” he said, at length, rising slow- 
ly from his seat. 

Easton hurried away with the message, and she was followed im- 
mediately by her master. She had scarcely arranged the pillows of 
the bed, so as to enable Kate to sit upright, when Mr. Cargill en- 
tered. 

He motioned Easton to retire, and that worthy lady, much against 
her will, was compelled to obey. 

Then he closed the door after her, bolted it, and drew the porce- 


73 


A HARD KNOT. 


lain “lappet” over the keyhole, so that no prying eyes might see 
anything in the room. , He advanced slowly to the bed, where Katie 
lay watching his singular movements. 

She was quite calm now; no tears or sobs, only the sweet white 
face, worn and pinched as with years of suffering. A little flush of 
painful surprise at the appearance of her father was the only emotion 
she displayed. Otherwise she was calm as himself. 

Her surprise was excited by observing that his hair had grown 
perfectly white since the previous day, and the lines about the mouth 
and eyes had deepened as with age. 

He touched her brow with his lips, formally and coldly, to all out- 
ward seeming ; but she felt his lips trembling on her brow, and she 
knew how much love there was for her under his stern exterior. 

He stood erect before her, waiting for her to speak, the while his 
pale, sunken eyes narrowly scanned her features, to descry how much 
she had suffered, i 

“Turn the light away, papa,” she said feebly; “it hurts my 
eyes.” 

Silently he complied, and resumed his place by her side, drawing 
the curtain round the bed so as still further to shield her from the 
light. 

Her little hand crept into his, and her head was laid on his shoul- 
der, just as she remembered doing — ay, he remembered it too — when 
she had been a child, and wholly unconscious of any austerity or 
coldness on his part. In that position, and with that memory, tears 
came very quietly to the relief of her parched eyes, and stealing soft- 
ly down her cheeks, gave vent to the over- pent anguish of the girl’s 
mind. And by and by, since he would not speak, she was obliged to 
begin herself. 

“Are you very angry with me, papa?” 

“ Angry, my child ?” he faltered huskily, for tha man’s wrath had 
cooled during the thirty hours or so which had elapsed since their 
previous conversation. 

“You cannot help being angry,” she said softly, but quite steadily, 
and her voice obtained even a degree of firmness as she proceeded. 
“And I deserve your anger. I deceived you— you, who had been 
always good and kind to me. I agreed to do that which I knew 
would vex you, and all because I was a weak, silly girl, who had not 
sufficient faith in your love to trust that you would do everything, 
consent to anything, that could make me happy. ” 

“I have always tried to do that.” 

“I know it, dear father. And why do you not speak angrily to 
me. why do you not scold me, as you were going to do when I first 
told you?” 

He made no answer. 


A HARD KNOT. 


73 


You are waiting until I am well enough to hear what you have 
to say — is not that why you are silent ?” she went on, 

“ No, child, no !” 

“ What, then — have you already forgiven me? Have you already 
forgiven him?” 

A pause; and then, while he laid his hand on her head, as if to 
make sure that she should not raise her eyes to his face : 

“ Tell me how it all happened,” 

“I — I don’t know how it came about,” she answered confusedly. 
‘‘But, you know, Alick and I were often together ; and he had no 
friends but us; and you were always so stern with him that I was 
sorry for him, and tried always to please him ; and then I found 
that — that I cared a great deal for him, and I was frightened. Then 
w^e used to meet often in secret, so that the servants might not gos- 
sip about our — love. ” 

“I see, I see; and you would not trust me?” muttered the old 
man, regretfully. 

“It was Alick who was most afraid of you; for you know that 
you were never kind and gentle with him, as you have been with me 
— as you are now.” 

“But I have been a true friend to him, and grati — But go on, 
child, go on.” 

“He had learned by some means that you wished Mr. Lyon to 
become my husband. That drove him to desperation, and he pleaded 
with me to marry him secretly, so as to make him feel safe and hap- 
py, till he might obtain some means of proving to you that he was 
worthy to become your son.” 

“Ah!” 

The ejaculation was that of one who obtains some striking con- 
firmation of a conviction. 

“ When you went to London, three weeks ago, he urged me again 
to take this step. I did not think it necessary; only he was so un- 
happy when I asked him to let me speak to you, that I desisted for 
the time. Then came Sarah Burnett, and that was what caused me 
to agree to his proposal — ” 

“ How was that — how was that?” 

“ Sarah’s revelation dismayed me very much. You were away. 
I could not write to you about it. My heart grew sick when I 
touched a pen with the thought of writing to you. I had no friend 
to relieve me in such a moment ; there was no one I could trust but 
— but the man who was to be my husband. I thought it necessary 
for him to know it ; for I dared not become his wife until he under- 
stood my true position; so I told him all,” 

“Well— and he?” 

“ Proved himself all that I had believed him to be. He urged me, 

4 


74 


A HARD JKNOT. 


with more earnestness than ever, to become his wife at once, without 
waiting to tell you — without hesitating to consider anything. I 
tried to show him how he might injure his own prospects by a union 
with one placed in such a sad position as myself. But he would lis- 
ten to nothing, and at last I yielded ; for I love him, father, and I 
know that he is good and true.” 

“ Where were you married?” he asked. 

“At the Victoria Hotel, by license.” 

“Who were the witnesses?” 

“Easton, and one of the waiters.” 

“You have a certificate?” 

“ It is in my desk. The key is in the pocket of that dress hang- 
ing on the handle of the wardrobe.” 

He went to the dress, procured the key, and, the desk having been 
brought into the bedroom by Katie since it had become the keeper 
of the precious document, her father in a few moments had the cer- 
tificate in his hand. 

He examined it minutely, and then carefully placed it in his pocket- 
book. 

She had been watching his every movement with intense eager- 
ness, trying to learn something of his thought from his visage ; and 
she failed. He advanced to her side again. 

“Shall I tell you now why I am not angry with you, Katie?” he 
said, in a weary voice. . 

“Yes, if you will.” 

He laid his hands on her head gently, and an expression of pain 
and sorrow now dawned in his eyes while he spoke : 

“ Because, my poor child, I have had time to think, and I know 
what a puny, w^orthless thing my wrath is in the face of that which 
you have to suffer. The punishment of my sin is hard to bear, but 
the punishment of yours comes more swiftly.” 

‘ ‘ What is it you mean ? Speak !” 

He had hesitated, but he complied with her appeal, 

“You love this man — you have secretly married him; and, in do- 
ing so, you have supplied a motive for the crime with which he is 
charged.” 

“But you— you,” she interrupted wildly, “you do not — you can- 
not — believe him guilty!” 

“I know nothing. You have supplied a motive for the crime, 
which would have been wholly absent had he remained simply my 
dependent nephew ; but as the secret husband of my daughter, men 
will say that, to secure her position as my heiress, and to give him- 
self a claim upon me, perhaps, he perpetrated this crime. Men will 
say that, and it will be hard to disprove it.” 

“But it is false— false! Ah! father, can you believe me capable 


A HARD KNOT. 


75 


of such a thing ? Till you can believe that, trust me, he is guiltless 
as you are yourself.” 

“Heaven only knows the truth!” he replied, with a perceptible 
shudder. 

“But you do not doubt?” she cried, almost with a shriek. 

“I am not his judge.” 

A low, piteous moan, and she sank back on the pillows. 

“I see now — I see now! I have ruined him — I who love him so!” 

“Hush! hush! be calm! Mr. Lyon and the doctor will arrange 
so that you will not be required to attend the examination to-mor- 
row.” 

“But I must go— I must save him!” 

“ What can be done for him I will do. Be silent — be hopeful, if 
you can. Good-night.” 

Again he touched her brow with his lips ; but this time the auster- 
ity had faded from his manner, and he was gentle with her as a 
woman might have been. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

AN OBSTINATE CLIENT. 

The miserable fate of Jean Gorbal, the mystery in which the cir- 
cumstances were shrouded, and the rumors which had spread like 
wildfire, involving certain persons of position and influence in the 
affair, had excited the curiosity and horror of the city, and especially 
of Port-Dundas, to an extraordinary degi’ee. 

Consequently, on Monday morning there was a crowd about the 
door of the sheriff’s chambers at an early hour. The excitement of 
the mass which lingered about the doors was kept in bounds by the 
constables, who, however, had hard work to obtain a clear passage to 
the door for the various witnesses in the inquiry of the day. The 
crowd swayed and shouted, laughed and jested, as is the custom of 
crowds, even when the life of a fellow-creature is in peril. 

The fiscal was engaged in earnest consultation with Sheriff Lyon. 

Alick Tavendale was pale, but collected and firm. With as much 
ease as if he had been sitting in his own room, and no such serious 
question as the present, involving his life, was about to be raised, he 
conversed in an undertone with his agent, who spoke in a whisper, 
earnestly urging something upon him which he rejected. 

Indeed, of the two, the agent looked most like the criminal, for he 
was nervously earnest. This, however, was attributable to the fact 
that he was a young man, and this was the first important case in 
which he had been engaged, so that it was of the utmost consequence 


76 


A HAED KNOT. 


to his future prospects to bring off his client scathless, and he had 
taken great pains to obtain permission from the sheriff to be present 
at the examination. 

Mr. Laurence Hewitt had been acquainted with the prisoner, and 
immediately on learning that he had been arrested on this grave 
charge he had hastened to him, and insisted upon being intrusted 
with the case. Tavendale had agreed to that, declaring at the same 
time that he was so confident his innocence would be apparent as 
soon as the inquiry had been opened that he had not intended to seek 
any legal aid. 

Mr, Hewitt, however, was determined that he should have the ut- 
most help the law could afford, and had already retained one of the 
leading counsel of the circuit on behalf of his friend. He set himself 
to work with unexampled zeal, and although he had as yet failed to 
obtain anything conclusive in favor of his client, that was because 
he had been allowed so little time, and because the prisoner himself 
afforded him scant assistance in his inquiries, 

“For Heaven’s sake,” Mr. Hewitt was whispering now, eagerly, 
‘ ‘ be sensible at the last moment. Give me some means of proving 
where you were on the evening of the murder, for upon that every- 
thing will depend.” 

“ I tell you there is no need,” replied Tavendale, quietly and de- 
cisively, ‘ ‘ I have reasons — serious reasons — for not wishing my 
whereabouts on that evening to be known. If you can’t get on with- 
out that knowledge — well, then, you must throw up the case, and I 
will be as grateful to you as if you had carried it out.” 

“Are you mad?” muttered Hewitt, unable to conceal his annoy- 
ance at this obstinacy at such a moment. 

“ I hope not.” 

‘ ‘ Then do you not see that if I throw up the case it will be a direct 
acknowledgment on my part and yours of your guilt?” 

Tavendale looked him straight in the face. 

“ Do you suspect me?” he asked, quietly; “ for if you do, I would 
rather meet whatever danger there may be in your drawing off than 
have jmu go on.” 

“It is not m}^ business to suspect; my business is to prove you 
innocent, or, at any rate, to prevent others proving you guilty ; but 
1 warn you that you are adding difficulties to a case which is diffi- 
cult enough in itself.” 

“I can’t help that; I will not say where I was on Monday even- 
ing.” 

With a dissatisfied expression, Mr. Hewitt turned to the table, and 
busied himself among the various documents which he produced 
from his green bag. 

The case proceeded. The first testimony received was that of In- 


A HARD KNOT. 


77 


epector Speirs and the constables, detailing in what manner the un- 
fortunate woman Jean Gorbal had been found. 

Then followed witnesses whose evidence tended to show that the 
prisoner had been seen entering the deceased’s house on the Friday- 
before the crime; and that he had been seen at Port-Dundas on the 
afternoon of the day of the murder. 

]Mrs. Marshall, Tavendale’s landlady, and her servant, Lizzie Dunn, 
testified to the singular conduct of the prisoner during the three 
days preceding and the three days succeeding the date of the crime. 
They spoke with evident reluctance, and the landlady was even in 
tears ; for the lodger had succeeded in obtaining the esteem of her 
household. 

Inspector Speirs presented the various articles which had been 
found in Tavendale’s apartments. The woman had been killed by 
being stabbed in the back with some three-cornered instrument like 
a foil. There was one of Tavendale’s foils broken, and the pointed 
portion of it could not be found. Prisoner had declared that he 
had broken the foil accidentally one morning while bending it; he 
had laid the broken parts together on a side-table; he had not thought 
of it again until he saw it in the detective’s hands, and then he could 
not think how the missing portion had disappeared, as everybody in 
the house declared they had not touched it. 

Beneath the nails of deceased had been found certain particles of 
gray kid gloves. Here were a pair of gray kid gloves, scratched and 
torn, as if the person who had been wearing them had been engaged 
in a struggle with some one. They were the gloves of the accused. 

From the garden of the house at Port-Dundas had been brought 
a clod of earth, in which was punctured a hole by the point of an 
umbrella having a patent ferrule. Here was the prisoner’s umbrella, 
on the point of which still remained marks of earth. It had a patent 
ferrule, and it fitted the hole in the clod of earth exactly. 

Again, a man’s footprint had been measured in the garden, and, 
although the measurement might be considered defective, yet here 
were a pair of the prisoner’s boots with which the measurement 
agreed to a quarter of an inch. These boots had been wet, and had 
shrunk while being dried at a fire. 

As these striking items were one by one adduced, each seeming to 
point more distinctly than the other to the prisoner as the guilty 
one, Tavendale did not lose his presence of mind, although his agent 
winced inwardly, and held down his head over his papers. The ac- 
cused remained calm as at first, although he became a shade paler. 

The commotion outside was excessive, and was only subdued by 
the strenuous exertions of the constables. Distorted explanations 
passed rapidly from mouth to mouth, and many eyes were opened 
wide with horror at the atrocity of the prisoner, which was under- 


78 


A HARD KNOT, 


stood by those impulsive judges to have been quite decided by the 
evidence of somebody. 

In the lobby of the chambers excitement also prevailed. Witnesses 
who had yet to be called, and the officials, were loitering about, dis- 
cussing the probabilities of the result of the present examination. 
The worst for the accused was anticipated. 

But there was one who had only recently forced a way into the 
hall, who was silent, and kept apart from the rest. She had been 
closely veiled, but, having taken her position by a side door, when 
the murmur of the inspector’s voice was first heard, she threw the 
veil back, in her eagerness to catch every sound that might in any 
way indicate how the investigation progressed. 

The veil being raised revealed the white, distracted face of Kate 
Cargill. 

Fevered, tortured, and bewildered by the thoughts which visited 
her as she had lain on her bed, with every nerve tense-strung with 
anticipations of the events of the day upon which her husband’s 
life was staked, she had sprung with unnatural energy from her bed. 
Easton tried to persuade her to remain still, but in vain. Despite 
the doctor’s warning, despite her father’s commands, she would not, 
she could not, lie there, thinking of what was being done in the 
city, and make no effort to be near her husband in the hour of his 
trial. 

Easton was a discreet person, and she saw that it was useless to 
attempt to stay her; so she ordered the brougham, and accompanied 
her mistress to the precincts of the chambers. Then Kate had jumped 
from the carriage, and, weak as she was, she made a wny through the 
crowd and reached the lobby. 

When she comprehended that the testimony was to the prisoner’s 
disadvantage, she clutched the handle of the door feverishly for sup- 
port while she bent her ear closer, with the feeble hope of discover- 
ing that she had been mistaken. 

At that moment she heard the low, steady voice of Sarah Burnett. 

“Miss Cargill — Kate— my sister! Why are you here? You are 
ill, and this agitation will kill you.” 

Half turning her face, and hastily motioning her away with her 
disengaged hand, Kate rejoined faintly. 

“Don’t speak— don’t speak! Go away; you do not know how 
much I have at stake.” 

Sarah made a movement, as if about to draw her away from the 
place, when a policeman summoned her to the sheriff’s presence. 

She looked quickly round, as if the gruffness of the man’s voice 
or the novelty of the position had alarmed her. Besides, she ob- 
served the quick glance of amaze and suspicion which Kate flashed 
upon her, and she hesitated to leave her sister in her present state 


A HARD KNOT. ^ 79 

of anguish, with all the curious eyes of the loungers in the lobby 
fixed upon her. 

A second time her name was called. 

“ For pity’s sake, Miss Cargill, come away from this place!” she 
said hurriedly, seizing her hand, as if to drag her away; “at least 
retire to some place where your agitation may be unobserved.” 

Kate snatched her hand from Sarah’s grasp, and hastily re-covered 
her face with the veil, but without moving from the spot. 

“It is my husband’s life that is at stake. Would you have 
me hide in some corner while they are murdering him?” she said 
fiercely. 

“ Your husband!” exclaimed Sarah, drawing back. 

“Ay — my husband.” 

A third time Sarah’s name was called, and she could not now de- 
lay to express sympathy or surprise. Agitated and confused, she 
entered and took her place in front of the large table. 

Kate, in the great agony of suspense, was wholly unconscious of 
the curious eyes which rested upon her — pityingly, to be sure, for 
even those most accustomed to such scenes could not look upon that 
fair young face, with its pallid terror, and not feel the heartstrings 
tighten and the breath come quickly. 

She did not see them, she did not hear their whisperings ; she was 
sensible of nothing save the subdued murmur of voices which reached 
her ears from the interior of the chamber, as the low plashing of 
waves on a shingly beach afar off. Once, twice, and again she thought 
of entering, and only the sense of her own utter weakness checked 
her, and kept her in the lobby. 

She knew that she could not look upon her husband, standing 
there before the man upon whose words his life, as she thought, 
depended, with the eyes of the people turned upon him as a crimi- 
nal, and preserve the little strength she had left. No; she must hus- 
band that strength to learn his fate. And so she remained there, 
clutching at the door-handle for support— listening, listening, with 
every nerve tense-strung. 


CHAPTER XVII. 

SARAH’S EVIDENCE. 

The eyes of the sheriff and the fiscal were turned to Sarah, who 
now stood with head bowed meekly, and hands clasped tightly, as 
one waiting submissively to undergo an ordeal. She had not looked 
at the prisoner; the information she had just received from Kate 
seemed to have impressed her with the dread that what she would 


80 


A HARD KNOT. 


have to say might in some fatal manner influence the fate of her 
sister’s husband. 

She was examined by the fiscal. 

“You knew the deceased, Jean Gorbal?” 

' “Yes, she was my nurse, but during the last two years I saw her 
very seldom.” 

“ Why was that?” 

“ She was addicted to drink, and every time she saw my mother 
she caused her agitation, and more than once made her very ill for 
several days after an interview.” 

“ What was the subject of these interviews?” 

Sarah was evidently agitated by the question, as if she felt that 
they were approaching the unhappy family secret. 

“ Go on. Miss Burnett,” said Sheriff Lyon, encouragingly. 

“I was not allowed to be present at their interviews, and all I 
heard was merely a portion of the conversation when I was leaving 
the room or returning to it,” she responded feelingly. 

“Well, what did the conversation, so far as you heard, seem to 
concern?” queried the fiscal. 

“Money at times, and at other times it related to a family matter, 
with which Jean Gorbal, as my nurse, was associated.” 

“Speak a little louder, if you please; and now tell us, do you 
know what that family matter was? Do not hesitate to answer. 
We would not press this question were it not that we believe the 
answer will enable us to see what was the character of the deceased’s 
private life, and who were her friends. Do you know what this mat- 
ter was?” 

“Ido.” 

Her voice was not raised above a whisper, but the sound was dis- 
tinctly audible in the stillness which prevailed. 

“ Tell us what it was, then.” 

Sarah raised her handkerchief to her lips, as if to hide her nervous 
quivering, and bowed her head lower than before to conceal the 
crimson shame which overspread her features. 

Mr. Hewitt, who had not hitherto by the slightest movement recog- 
nized her, turned his head quickly, as if to see the cause of her si- 
lence. As quickly he resumed his former position, intent upon the 
various documents which lay before him, and the memoranda he 
was making of the evidence. 

“Must I tell it all?” said Sarah, glancing appealingly to Mr. 
Lyon. 

“It is necessary,” said the latter, kindly, and sympathizing with 
the distress of the witness, for he was already acquainted with the 
miserable story she was required to repeat. “ Remember, Miss Bur- 
nett, that at this moment, when a human life is at stake, this is no time 


A HARD KNOT. 


81 


for reservation of any kind, however delicate may be the subject, 
or however painful it may be to you to refer to it.” 

“It is not of myself I am thinking, sir,” she said earnestly; “if 
only myself were concerned I would not hesitate a moment to speak ; 
but the honor and the good name of those whom I love and respect 
are involved, and I cannot readily bring myself to expose them.” 

“Justice to the prisoner. Miss Burnett, demands that we should 
know everything connected with the deceased.” 

The sheriff, commiserating the unhappy position of the young 
girl, who was thus called upon to give the particulars of an affair 
the shame of which she felt as her own, although she was really 
blameless in the matter, whispered to the fiscal, and the latter, with 
a grave movement of his head, indicative of assent, said, “ Where is 
Mrs. Burnett?” 

“She is not here, sir,” replied Sarah, gi-adually obtaining a con- 
trol over her emotion. 

“ How is that? She received a summons.” 

“Yes, sir; but she is ill.” 

• ‘ ‘ Dangerously ?” 

“ So dangerously, sir, that the doctor, whom I left with her till 
my return, fears that she may not survive twelve hours longer. 
Her mind and body are in a state of collapse, so that she can nei- 
ther speak nor move. Here is the medical certificate, sir, showing 
that to remove her from the house would be to kill her, and that to 
attempt to obtain any evidence from her would be useless, as she is 
incapable of speech, even if she could understand the questions.” 

“ Was the attack sudden?” 

“Very sudden.” 

“ When did it occur?” 

“ On the afternoon of the day on which the murder of Jean Gor- 
bal was discovered. ” 

“Pray calm yourself. Miss Burnett,” said Sheriff Lyon, gently, 
seeing that her emotion was again likely to overcome her. “You 
will tell us now whether this illness had anything to do with the dis- 
covery of the crime ?” 

“ I believe it had, sir, for it was just after dinner, when Mrs. Bur- 
nett took up the afternoon edition of the paper. I was in another 
part of the house, but I ran to the parlor on hearing a loud scream. 
I found Mrs. Burnett lying on the floor as I entered the room, and 
she moaned in such a way that I thought she was choking. I heard 
what she was saying, however, distinctly. She was saying — ‘Oh, 
miserable, wretched — wretched woman!’” 

“Meaning Jean Gorbal ?” 

‘ ‘ Perhaps so, sir ; but I do not think the exclamation referred to her.” 

Mr. Lyon felt his heart bound to his throat, as Sarah, with quiet 

4 * 


82 


A HARD KNOT. 


simplicity, made this response, for the white face of Katie presented 
itself to his mind. 

“ Did you ask the meaning of her words?” 

‘ ‘ I was too much agitated at the moment to think of anything 
else than of helping her. With the assistance of the servant I car- 
ried her to the bedroom. In her delirium she has repeatedly spoken 
of my poor nurse, but she has said nothing coherently, and for the 
last two days she has not spoken at all. The doctor says she is sink- 
ing.” 

“Well, then, in her delirium, or at any other time, has she ever 
said anything, or hinted anything, that would lead you to suppose 
that Jean Gorbal had enemies?” 

“No, I cannot remember ever hearing anything of the kind.” 

This answer was given with apparent constraint, as if the witness 
w'ere balancing the words, uncertain of their truth. 

‘ ‘ Has she ever hinted, or do you know from any source, that there 
was any person interested in the death of your nurse?” 

“ No — I— Ah, sir, spare me!” 

Sarah shaded her eyes with her hand, while her breast moved with 
suppressed sobs. 

Once again Mr. Hewitt turned his head quickly towards the wit- 
ness, and as quickly resumed his former position. It was a mere 
cursory glance, as if, in the interests of his client, to see how far the 
manner of the witness corroborated the words. 

“ You must answer the question. Miss Burnett,” said the sheriff, 
firmly; resolute to remember his duty as a magistrate, however 
much his own private feelings might be lacerated. 

Sarah removed her hand from her eyes, which were quite dry, al- 
though bright as polished steel. Her features, too, were set as hard 
as a mould of steel. She was perfectly calm now" — perfectly quiet 
and firm. She saw, apparently, that evasion was worse than useless, 
for it might harm rather than help the cause of Katie’s husband. 
The time had come for speech, and how'ever much pain she might 
endure w'hile thus publicly proclaiming her father’s, her sister’s, and 
her own shame, she w’^ould hesitate no longer. 

“I do not know any one wdio may have been interested in her 
death, but I do know that her untimely end has been the source of 
much trouble to me and mine.” 

“You will explain that.” 

She bowed her head in token of assent; and then, in a clear, low 
voice, and with the utmost lucidity of manner, she repeated the nar- 
rative she had already given to John Hadden, and which had en- 
abled the detective to complete the links of the chain of evidence 
implicating the prisoner. Her discovery of the letters and the rev- 
elation of their contents produced a profound sensation on those 


A HARD KNOT. 


83 


present, which was heightened when, at the proper moment, Sarah 
produced the documents from her pocket, stating that she had 
brought them with her, anticipating that she might be compelled to 
show them, and explain their nature. 

Like a flash, suspicion was transferred from the prisoner to no less 
a personage than the millionaire himself. 

Sarah was permitted to stand aside. She had passed through the 
ordeal of the examination and exposure bravely enough; but now 
that her attention was no longer fixed upon the sheriff or the fiscal, 
she became acutely sensitive to the curiosity she had excited in those 
around her. 

She shrank from their gaze, but she was so faint that she had to 
take a seat. A thrill passed over her form when she heard the clerk 
call Mr. Robert Cargill, and the constable at the door repeat the 
name, 

“ Courage, Sarah, my lass ! it will soon be over.” 

The words were whispered in her ear by the kindly voice of John 
Hadden. Without raising her head she extended her hand to him. 

“ Oh, how can I live,” she murmured sobbingly, “and all the 
world made aware of my shame !” 

“Hush! nobody will blame you, lass, for what you had no hand 
in — nobody is going to blame you for being born.” 

“ It’s not myself I’m thinking about. I saw Katie outside there, 
and my heart aches for her, she looked so worn and distracted; and 
I feel as if I would go mad when I think of what I have said and 
done.” 

“You could not help it, my lass. You must have your rights, 
and justice must have her rights; and I saw how hard it was for 
j^ou to speak out, although all the shame lay on others, not on you. 
But you will forget all that when you are installed in your true po- 
sition as the lady of Mavisbank House.” 

She interrupted him by clutching his arm spasmodically. 

“ I will never obtain that position; I will never accept it unless 
that man is saved. ” 

“ Who is it you mean — Tavendale?” 

“Yes— him.” 

“You cannot wish a criminal to espape?” 

“No, no; but is he the criminal?” 

“We are trying to find that out.” 

“No matter; guilty or not guilty, his condemnation will drive me — 

I don’t know what I will do. I cannot bear to think of it, for 
it will kill poor Katie— she who is so good and generous.” 

“And why should it kill her?” asked Hadden, smiling, and try- 
ing to relieve her gloom. 

“ Why?” she said, in a subdued tone, and with the air of one who 


84 


A HARD KNOT. 


is utterly distracted by her own position. “Because I have been 
one of the main causes of the crime, and because he is her husband.” 

“Eh? — what?” 

Hadden bent down, drew her hand from her face, and peered in- 
quisitively into it, with an expression of puzzled astonishment on 
his own. 

“He— Alick Tavendale, the prisoner— is the husband of Katie, 
my sister,” she replied, still speaking below her breath and meeting 
his gaze fixedly. 

“Who told you that?” 

“Herself — just now.” 

Hadden dropped her hands, raised himself, and stood with head 
bent, and his right hand extended, as if about to take a pinch of 
snuff from some invisible snuff-box. 

As a general buzz in the chamber intimated the entrance of Mr. 
Cargill, Hadden started from his reverie. He whispered to Sarah 
to remain there until he returned, and then he slipped away. 

He despatched a man immediately on a pressing mission to the 
office of the registrar of births, deaths, and marriages. 


CHAPTER XVHI. 

THE millionaire’s CONFESSION. 

Mr. Cargill leaned heavily upon his gold-headed staff as he took 
his place. Those who had seen him only three days ago, and even 
those who had personal acquaintance with him, w’ould have been 
startled by the transformation the man had undergone. Indeed, if 
twenty years had elapsed since Friday, and every year had heaped 
new misfortune upon him, the change could not have been more 
marked and terrible. 

The form which had been held erect was bent and shrunken ; the 
head which had been raised so high was bowed on his breast ; the 
eyes which had been so sharp and haughty were dull and sunken. 
In every lineament was stamped humiliation and shame. 

Tlie millionaire, proud and austere in the consciousness of his 
w'ealth, position, and power, had become a weak, broken-down old 
man, verging upon his dotage. It was a pitiable spectacle the great 
man presented, fallen from his height of pride and grandeur. 

In commiseration for his unhappy position and his evident bod- 
ily weakness he was allowed to sit during the examination. 

His voice was feeble and unsteady as he thanked the sheriff for 
the consideration shown to him, and professed himself ready to give 
any information in his power that might be required of him. 


A HARD KNOT. 


85 


The chief object to be gained in examining Mr. Cargill was the 
knowledge of the true position the prisoner had occupied in his con- 
fidence, so as to detect how far the peculiar circumstances in which 
the witness was involved had supplied a motive for the assassination 
of Jean Gorbal. To this end it was necessary to obtain from him 
a confirmation of Sarah’s narrative. He corroborated every detail 
and supplied others. Although he spoke in a feeble, sickly manner, 
he made no effort to conceal anything. He seemed to have come 
there with the determination to lay bare the innermost recesses of 
his heart, the profoundest secrets of his life. 

His marriage with Katie Douglas had been forced upon him by 
his father. He did not seek to defend in any way the miserable 
weakness and baseness of which he had been guilty in marrying the 
lady while his whole thought and feeling were bound up in another. 
He only said that he had submitted to his father’s will because he 
had seen that there was no other means of saving his house from 
utter ruin than by this union. 

“ She was a good and true wife to a false and indifferent husband,” 
he said, in a stifling voice; “ and I think her goodness and the af- 
fection she gave me, acting upon my own sense of my unworthiness, 
made me dislike her all the more; for, like most other people, I 
might have forgiven an offence committed against myself, but I 
could not forgive the daily smarts her fidelity caused me in daily re- 
minding me of my own baseness. 

“ The fact that Mrs. Burnett and my wife were about to become 
mothers about the same time suggested the wretched trick of ex- 
changing the children, so that the offspring of the woman I loved 
might inherit the fortune which my wife’s dowry had enabled me 
to realize. The woman Jean Gorbal had worked in one of our fac- 
tories, and on more than one occasion I had saved her from being 
discharged, on account of her propensity for drink and neglect of 
her work. This rendered her, as she repeatedly declared, devoted 
to my interests, and ready to serve me at any time and in any way. 

“At length she was discharged, and she went back to her native 
place, Greenock, where she got married ; but the moment 1 acquaint- 
ed her that I wanted her help she came to me. She was quick and 
cunning, and undertook to carry out my wishes in every particular, 
in consideration of an annual allowance. She came to London, as 
I directed her, but, much to my chagrin, she brought with her her 
husband. She told me she had not been able to avoid that, as Gor- 
bal, who was a seaman, was of a jealous disposition, and would 
scarcely trust her out of his sight. She assured me, however, that 
he was safe as herself; and* as he was a silent, taciturn man, who 
made no attempt to interfere with our arrangements, further than 
by his insisting upon being a party to them, my objections to his 


86 


A HARD KNOT. 


presence were overcome, and lie remained with his wife at Morley’s 
Hotel until the event transpired,” 

“ The exchange of children was effected, then?” 

“Yes, it was; the plan proved completely successful. Every- 
thing occurred as we had hoped and anticipated, and before the chil- 
dren were a week old the exchange was effected, by the agency of 
Dr. Largie, Jean Gorbal, and her husband. The arrangement was 
that I should send my wife’s nurse from the room, and, while she 
was away, the doctor carried the infant to the anteroom. There 
Jean was to be in waiting with Mrs. Burnett’s infant, and as the 
clothes for both children had been prepared of exactly similar shape 
and color, there was to be nothing to do but exchange, I heard the 
doctor speaking, and, afraid that he might waken Mrs, Cargill, I 
went to the door, to warn him to lower his voice. I heard him say- 
ing, ‘ You should have brought it at once, as I told you,’ Jean Gor- 
bal answered him, as I thought, sulkily : ‘ I thought better of it — 
the child might have cried, or made a row, while I was waiting, and 
that would have spoiled the business. I can go to the room in a 
minute, and if anybody sees me they’ll think it’s my own mistress’s 
child I’ve got. Then I’ll leave this one there, and bring the other 
back. If anybody sees, they won’t see anything out of the ordi- 
nary.’ She took the child away, and the doctor went with her. 
When he came back, he asked if Mrs. Cargill was sleeping, I an- 
swered, ‘Yes;’ and cautioned him not to speak so loud. While I 
was speaking, the door of the anteroom opened, and Jean Gorbal 
entered with Mrs. Burnett’s child. The clothes had been so careful- 
ly arranged that, although the doctor and I were aware of the de- 
ception, we could scarcely detect any difference, and, for a minute, 
we could scarcely believe that this was not the same child which 
had just been taken away. 

“ Jean had left the door open, and we heard the cries of the child 
coming from Mrs. Burnett’s apartment. The doctor sent her back 
immediately to still its cries, and, taking the infant she carried, he 
returned to Mrs, Cargill’s room, and placed it in the crib from which 
my wife’s daughter had been lifted a few moments previously. He 
left the room for a time, and during his absence my wife wakened. 

“ She took the child in her arms and fondled it, without the slight- 
est suspicion of the treachery that had been at work during her 
sleep. 

“ When the doctor came back he looked pale, and exceedingly 
anxious. When I spoke to him in private, he told me he did not 
like the work I had forced him to do; that nothing, save the obli- 
gations he was under to me, would laave tempted him to do it ; 
and hoped that I was satisfied, 

“ Ten years ago my wife died. Up to the last she had no sus- 


A HARD KNOT. 


87 


picion that the child she had cared for so fondly, and had loved 
so tenderly — all the more tenderly because she felt herself to be an 
unloved wife— was not her own. Up to the last she was good and 
affectionate to me, and never breathed one word of reproach. She 
told me, at last, that she had for some time known of my associa- 
tion with her former governess; and with the words of forgiveness 
on her lips she died.” 

The old man’s voice had become almost inaudible; it seemed as 
if the memory of the good woman, towards whom he had acted so 
basely, overwhelmed him, and compelled him to pause for breath. 

“That memory,” he went on, in a quavering voice, “was the 
sharpest of all the stings my own acts had formed to torture me 
and render my life miserable, while I tried to hide the sore from 
the w^orld by gilding it over with the show of my wealth. I know 
that there are many who have envied me my riches ; but there is 
many a laborer on my estate, many a worker in my factories, with 
whom I would joyfully have changed places, had that been possi- 
ble. 

“Previous to my wife’s death I had a misunderstanding with 
Mrs. Burnett. I, who was so false myself, would have no mercy 
for falsehood in others; and since then I have not spoken with her. 
I know where she lives. I have often desired to see her, and to see 
my child, but I have held back — I scarcely know why, except that 
I cannot bear to meet the woman for whose sake I sinned so much, 
and who deceived me. Had it not been for that I would have mar- 
ried her. Dr. Largie died about five years ago. 

“Jean Gorbal received an allowance from me: she repeatedly in- 
sisted upon having the amount increased, and two years ago — I 
suppose to be the better able to annoy me into compliance with her 
wishes — she came to live in Glasgow, and rented the house in Port- 
Dundas where she was assassinated. I know nothing of her life, 
beyond the fact that she drank much and had always an aversion 
to work. Of her husband I have heard nothing for about eight or 
nine years, when deceased told me he had been shipwrecked — I 
forget where — in fact, I do not think that she named any place.” 

This statement had been all written down, and now that he had 
finished it, his head was bent forward on his hands, which were 
clasped on the top of his staff. There was a strange pause in the 
proceedings, as if the suspense for what was to follow made all 
present hold their breath. 


88 


A HARD KNOT. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

ANOTHER TACK. 

Inspector Speirs, who had gone out for a moment in obedi- 
ence to a signal from Hadden, returned, and handed a note to the 
sheriff. 

The latter perused the communication, and, despite the great self 
control he exercised over himself, he started slightly and grew pale. 

He passed the note to the fiscal, and in a few minutes afterwards 
the examination proceeded. 

The note Inspector Speirs had handed to Mr. Lyon was a certifi- 
cate of the marriage of Alexander Tavendale and Katherine Cargill. 

“ The prisoner is your nephew,” said the fiscal, holding the paper 
he had just received under his hand. 

“He is the son of my sister, who married in opposition to the 
wishes of her family. After her husband’s death I took charge of 
the boy and educated him. Latterly he has had a position in our 
counting-house.” 

“ You trusted him as one of your family?” 

“Yes.” 

“And he was frequently at your house?” 

“He was until a few months ago, when for private reasons I de- 
sired him to make his visits fewer.” 

“ What were the private reasons for that request?” 

“I was dissatisfied with his conduct,” was the reluctant answer. 

“ On what grounds?” 

Mr. Cargill paused, and appeared to find some difficulty in prop- 
erly shaping his response. 

“ I had learned he was living beyond his income, and his conduct 
in the office was careless and inattentive, and— and I feared that my 
daughter was learning to like him more than I wished.” 

“ Then you never thought of him as a husband for your daugh- 
ter?” 

“No.” 

“Did he ever make any proposal?” ' . ‘ 

“Never; and I would not have agreed to it if he had, unless I 
had found that my compliance was positively necessary to secure 


A HARD KNOT, 


89 


my daughter’s happiness. In that case I would not have opposed 
their marriage.” 

“ Did he know that?” 

“ I do not think he did.” 

“ Now, consider this question well, and answer to the best of your 
knowledge. Was the prisoner aware of the fact of your daughter’s 
birth?” 

“ No,” was the hesitating reply. 

“Are you sure that he did not, from you or from any one else, 
learn these facts, any time before the murder of Jean Gorbal?” 

The millionaire breathed hard, and his thin lips quivered. The 
prisoner regarded him with an anxious glance. - 

“Yes,” he answered, in a husky whisper. “ My daughter learned 
the miserable secret during my absence, and as she met the prisoner 
oftener than I suspected — as, in brief, she loved him — she thought it 
her duty to make him aware of the circumstances, and she told him 
all.” 

“ When was that?” 

‘ ‘ So far as I am aware, it was several days before— before the end 
of the week before last.” 

“ "Was the prisoner, to your knowledge, acquainted with the de- 
ceased?” 

“He was not acquainted with her, so far as I know; but on one 
occasion he delivered a message from me to her, at her house in 
Port-Dundas.” 

“Now, have you any reason to suppose that the prisoner might 
have wished to remove Jean Gorbal, in the hope, by so doing, to se- 
cure your consent to his marriage with your daughter, and in the 
desire to save her from exposure and the loss of fortune?” 

“I have no reason to suppose that.” 

“Jean Gorbal possessed certain proofs of the transfer of the chil- 
dren?” 

“ She did, in the shape of various letters written to her at ditfer- 
ent times by Mrs. Burnett and myself, before and since the event.” 

Mr. Cargill was now permitted to stand aside. Mr. Hewitt, the 
prisoner’s agent, hastily advanced to him, and whispered : ^ 

‘ ‘ Mr. Tavendale desires me to say, sir, that he thinks you should 
not remain here. I, as his agent, will bring you every particular of 
the result of to-day’s proceedings.” 

“ Thank you; I shall be glad to see you.” 

But he made no effort to retire immediately, and Mr. Hewitt was 
obliged to return to his place without any satisfactory answer. 

A variety of witnesses from Port-Dundas were again examined, 
the object being to discover any one who could identify the pris- 
oner as one of the men who were seen about Jean Gorbal’s house on 


90 


A HARD KNOT. 


the day of the 15th, In this, however, the examination was not 
successful. The prisoner had been seen by Mrs. Fraser, the gro- 
cer, on the Saturday preceding the day of the crime, near her 
shop, but none of the witnesses had seen him thereabouts on the 
Monday. 

The prisoner’s declaration was very simple. On the 12th he had 
been made aware of the strange history of his uncle’s past life. He 
was naturally much troubled on account of his cousin, whom he 
had left in a state of sad affliction. He doubted the truth of 
the story, it was so strange, and that very evening he had gone in 
search of Jean Gorbal in order to learn from her what credit might 
be given to the narrative, and what proof she could produce to au- 
thenticate it. He had failed to find her, and he had gone again on 
the 13th (Saturday) and several occasions. He had seen her once, 
but she had been under the influence of drink; and, although she 
boasted and jibed much, she told him nothing. He was still deter- 
mined to see what proof she possessed, and had intended to watch 
her and bribe her till she displayed it. 

He had been deeply pained and chagrined when he learned that 
she had been murdered, and he was wholly innocent of complicity 
in the remotest degree with the horrible crime. 

He declined to say where he had been on the evening of the 15th, 
but he had not been near Port-Dundas, 

The examination was adjourned till that day week, on the appli- 
cation of Inspector Speirs, who had just received a telegram from 
Captain Mactier stating that, by that date, he hoped to be able to 
produce important evidence. 

Bail to any amount was otfered on behalf of the prisoner, but the 
sheriff declined to admit bail. 

The declaration of the prisoner had an effect on the sheriff up 
to the point where he declared his determination not to produce 
evidence of his whereabouts on the evening of the crime. If 
that portion of the statement had been omitted, or if it had been 
made to the opposite effect, Mr. Hewitt expressed his conviction 
that the sheriff would have accepted bail. As it was, the whole 
statement obtained a false color from that obstinate persistence in 
concealing the nature of his engagements on that particular even- 
ing. 

There was one person, however, upon whom the final declaration 
had more effect than all the rest had. Hadden had listened with 
unmoved countenance to the prisoner’s explanation until he came 
to those last words, and then the detective’s visage underwent a 
startling change. 

He looked up at the prisoner with an expression of utter bewil- 
derment, which gradually changed to one of distress. For several 


A HARD KNOT. 


91 


minutes after the sheriff had quitted the chamber, and the prisoner 
had been removed, he stood as one dumfounded by some extraor- 
dinary revelation. 

Inspector Speirs touched his arm, and Hadden started as if with 
an electric shock. He seized the inspector's hand, and shook it 
wildly. 

“ Lord help me!" he groaned; “ this is awful!" 

“What’s awful?" 

“ Where’s the sheriff?" asked Hadden, without appearing to have 
heard the question. 

“ In his private room. The fiscal has just gone, and he is alone." 

Hadden, without a word of explanation, darted away to the room, 
leaving the inspector with an impression that Sly Jock had lost his 
wits. 

Without pausing to knock, Hadden rushed into the room where 
Mr. Lyon was seated, with his face hidden in his hands, thinking 
of the certificate of marriage, and of the hopes it destroyed. 

The violent entrance of the detective startled him, and he looked 
up. 

“We’re all wrong — we’re all wrong!” cried Hadden, excitedly, 
swinging his arms about. 

“Who is all wrong, and what?” asked the sheriff, surprised and 
somewhat annoyed by this intrusion. 

“ We are — you are — and oh, worst of all, I have been!" ' 

“Wrong about what?" 

“ This case — that man is innocent!” 

He made the declaration vehemently, and Mr. Lyon stared at 
him as if he, too, suspected that his wits had been affected in some 
way. 

He frowned slightly as he made answer: 

“Innocent? All that has passed to-day leads to the opposite con- 
viction." 

“No, no! you’re wrong, and I’m the cause of it all!" cried Had- 
den, with unabated excitement. 

“What! you say this? you, who have been the main instrument 
in bringing his guilt to light?" 

Hadden pressed his head against his hands, and swayed his body 
to and fro, like one distracted with the toothache. 

“Yes, I say that — I, who have been the wretch to bring him to 
this pass. Lord help me! Lord help me! I have ruined him!" 

“Will you explain yourself, sir?” said the magistrate, impatiently. 

“ Yes; I told you that the murder was committed by a man who 
had gone about it with the precision of a scientific process. He had 
arranged everything, remember— with the exactitude of 

a mathematician. That man, whoever he was, is prepared with an 


93 


A HARD KNOT. 


this man has none. That man knows that everything de- 
pends on the strength of his alibi, and he is prepared with one as 
carefully arranged as the details of the murder. Alick Tavendale 
is not that man.” 

“I shall be glad when you are able to convince me of that,” 
said Mr. Lyon, dryly; “meanwhile, I must wish you good -after- 
noon.” 

“ Will you not help me?” 

“I can do nothing for you. You have succeeded in implicating 
him so far that I see little hope for him. You must extricate him 
if you can.” 

“And I will — I will!” cried John Hadden, rushing out of the 
room, stung by Mr. Lyon’s reproaches, still more by the keen teeth 
of his own conscience. 

He procured his hat and staff, and without a word of explanation 
to any one made off towards Port-Dundas. 

At the entrance to one of the dirtiest of the “lands,” which was 
situated within a stone’s-throw of the house in which Jean Gorbal 
had been murdered, he stopped a minute to gain breath and collect 
his thoughts. 

“I must have that boy,” he muttered, as, pressing his hat on his 
head, and trying to force his features into a grin, he ascended the 
dirty stone steps to a door of a “ but an’ a ben,” which was known 
as a cheap lodging for tramps and wayfarers who could afford no 
better. 

As he paused on the last step he saw within a little fat old wom- 
an, with coarse features, and a cap with enormous frills, which had 
grown yellow in the smoke and dust of the place. An unfortunate 
child was rolling about on the floor, playing with some bits of sticks 
and old canes; while a lad, sharp and ragged, aged about fourteen 
years — the same who had told the captain of the man who had sent 
him with a message to Bob Little — was amusing himself and the 
child by an acrobatic performance. 

At the present moment he was standing on his head, and the old 
woman was angrily calling to him in a husky voice : 

“ Will ye get down, ye vermin, and see wha’s coming?” 


CHAPTER XX. 

WILLIE THORNE. 

Mr. Hadden stepped into the place before the boy, in obedience 
to the angry command of the old woman, had regained the natural 
position of the human body, and stood on his feet instead of his 


A HARD KNOT. 


93 


head. Hadden, with a broad grin on his visage, as if he had been 
delighted with the performance, patted the boy on the head, and the 
boy submitted to the act of patronage with a sly glance at the vis- 
itor. 

Boy though he was in years and size, the life he had led had 
given him the experience and cunning of a man. His sharp face 
wore an old-fashioned expression of curiosity and uncertainty, as if 
he had some remote dread that the presence of such a well-dressed 
personage as the detective boded little good to the establishment. 

His suspicion was rather confirmed than dissipated when Hadden, 
as if in reward for his performances, gave him a penny. 

“Clever lad,” said Hadden, in his most genial tones; “you’ll 
make a fortune by and by if you don’t emigrate.” 

The lad pocketed the penny, and glanced towards the dame, as if 
to see what she had to say on the subject. 

The dame had been knitting on the entrance of the visitor, but 
she had dropped the work on her lap, and was now peering inquisi- 
tively at the gentleman. She did not know him to be connected 
with the police, or she would have given him a kindly welcome at 
once; for Mrs. Gibb had more than once had dealings with the au- 
thorities on account of some of her lodgers, and it was a principle 
of hers always to keep on good terms with the “force.” So she 
was always ready to supply the representatives of the law with any 
information she possessed, and to regale them with “a dram” as 
often as they would accept her hospitality. 

Mother Gibb’s characteristics were pretty well known to the con- 
stables on the beat; and one of these characteristics was that, al- 
though willing at any moment to place her services at their dispo- 
sal, she had never yet, by any chance, told them anything she could, 
by feigning ignorance or resorting to falsehood, conceal. It was 
known, too, that on more occasions than one she had enabled cer- 
tain gentlemen or ladies who happened to be wanted to make a suc- 
cessful retreat from the grasp of justice. 

Her house— or hovel, it should be called — w^as, therefore, one of 
the most closely watched of the low lodgings of Port-Dundas. She 
■was aware of that — aware that everything she said was disbelieved 
until it had been proven true, and yet she preserved the utmost good- 
humor with any members of the force who visited her, whatever 
might be the hour, and whatever the inconvenience to herself or her 
lodgers. 

The latter consisted chiefly of tramps and thieves of the lowest 
character, of both sexes and all ages. She charged threepence a 
night for lodgings, and frequently the hovel, which was not more 
than ten feet in breadth by twelve in length, would shelter over a 
dozen of those vagrants in one night. How they found room to 


94 


A HARD KNOT. 


stretch themselves was a problem not easily solved by an uniniti- 
ated observer of the place. It was only managed by the gross sys- 
tem of huddling men and women, boys and girls, together, like so 
many sacks of cotton rolled on the floor and the truckle-beds. 

As a general rule Mother Gibb’s lodgers entered late and went 
out early, so that, as at present, in the afternoons she was left to 
her own reflections and the management of her grandson, Willie 
Thorne, with the care of any unfortunate child who might be left 
to her charge, on payment of fourpence a day, while the mother 
was at work in the mill. 

At these hours Mother Gibb was rarely disturbed, save by a stray 
missionary or tract-distributor, who, being new to the place, under- 
stood little of her character, and, in the earnest pursuance of duty, 
hoped to benefit the woman and her household by counsel and prayer. 

To such visitors the woman was scarcely civil, and if the visit 
happened to be repeated she became decidedly uncivil. 

The plain black clothes and the innocent-like smile of Hadden 
suggested to her that he belonged to the class she cared least about, 
and so, while she still watched him narrowly, she picked up her 
work and recommenced knitting somewhat sullenly. 

“You don’t know me, mistress,” said Hadden, with his broad, 
simple grin, and while his restless eyes noted the disposition and 
character of everything in the place. 

“ No, I dinna.” 

“ Ah! never mind; we’ll hope for better acquaintance.” 

“ What for?” 

The question^ was plump, very plain, and in a degree surly, so 
that Hadden was slightly perplexed for a fitting answer. He 
stooped down to the little girl, who was sitting on the floor, staring 
at him. 

“Do you like to see your brother standing on his head, my lass?” 
he asked, with comical simplicity. 

But the child, as if gifted with unusual insight into character, 
shrank away from him and hid herself behind the skirts of Mother 
Gibb, who thereupon spoke ; 

“Willie Thorne is no the brither o’ the bairn, maister.” 

“I see, I see— a neighbor’s? Just so; but Willie Thorne is your 
grandson, eh?” 

“ Well, and what aboot that?” 

“ And his mother’s dead, and his father’s over the sea — isn’t that 
it, eh?” 

“Ye seem to ken a’ aboot it.” 

“Just so,” replied Mr. Hadden, complacently; “ but I’m not go- 
ing to speak about the lad’s parents. You don’t want him to take a 
trip after his father, do you?” 


A HARD KNOT. 


95 


The woman started, and her coarse visage twitched with sup- , 
pressed anger. 

“Na; no if I can help it.” 

“Well, there’s a danger of it if you keep him here. Now, I want 
a sharp lad just like Willie; and if you’ll let him go with me I’ll 
bring him up to a good trade, and place him beyond the danger of 
getting into the same trouble as his father.” * 

“ And wha are ye?” 

“Jock Sly.” 

At the sound of the name which had, on several occasions, spread 
terror among Mother Gibb’s lodgers, the woman became humble at 
once, and willing to comply with anything he might require. 

“Hey ! what w^ay didna ye say that afore? What would ye do 
Avi’ the lad?” 

“He is a sharp lad — a very sharp lad, and as I’ve been watching 
him a good bit, I am certain that if he were to join the force under 
a skilful guide — myself, for instance — he’d be an honor to the pro- 
fession, and a credit to me — eh?” 

The woman peered over her knitting at the smiling face of the 
detective, as if she did not know how far she might trust him. 

“Ay, he’s a sharp lad,” she muttered. 

“For instance, now, we’ll try him. Come here, Willie.” 

Hadden, making himself quite at home, drew a stool towards him 
and sat down. The boy, who had been listening with a cunning 
twinkle in his eyes to everything that was said, obej^ed the visitor’s 
command, and approached him slowly, but Avithout any of the shy- 
ness of ordinary children. 

“ Now, Willie,” said Hadden, drawing him betAveen his knees, 
and scanning his features narrowly as he spoke, w^hile he grinned 
with the complacency of a friendly patron of the family; “you 
Avould like to be rich, eh?” 

“Ay, I would.” 

“And I told you a minute ago that you would make a fortune 
by and by. Will I show you how?” 

“If you can.” 

“I can. Suppose you learn to read and write; you know a good 
deal already hoAv certain things are managed, and if you were to 
become a detective one day you would always have plenty of 
money in your pocket, you would have little to do, and you would 
be going about to the theatres and amusements — everywhere that 
there is fun and frolic going on. You Avould be drawing hundreds 
of pounds as rewards for your work, and if you were a steady fel- 
low you would make a fortune. What do you think of that?” 

“What do ye think, granny?” said the lad, turning to his 
grandam. 


96 


A HARD KNOT. 


“ I think it sounds well eneuch, lad; but I dinna ken how it might 
turn out.” 

“Just so,” Hadden broke in, “you don’t see how it would suit 
him; but I see it in his eyes; the lad was born for the force. Now 
I’ll show you how it would work: there’s that case of the woman 
Gorbal ; suppose Willie here could find out anything that would 
help us to lay our hands on the murderer — why, he’d get a hundred 
pounds down for that job alone. What do you say to that?” 

The lad’s eyes glistened at the thought of possessing a sum which 
seemed to him unlimited wealth, and his fingers moved nervously, 
as if they were already clutching the prize. 

“Then there’s the fun and the sport you would have in such a 
profession — why, it’s more like a private gentleman who’s got noth- 
ing to do but go about and amuse himself than working for a liv- 
ing,” continued Hadden, his own eyes twinkling with satisfaction 
at the impression he saw his words had made. 

“But how is he to set about doing ony thing o’ that sort?” queried 
the dame cautiously, and knitting fast. 

“Will you trust him to me?” 

“ If the lad likes.” 

“Here’s your chance, Willie; you’ll maybe never have such an- 
other. Will you go with me, and try for the hundred pounds?” 

“ Whan?” 

“Just now. We’ll begin at once to follow the track; we’ll begin 
with the dandy you might have seen going into the court over there 
on Monday evening.” 

“ What was he like?” 

“Tall, a swell, smoking, and carrying a silk umbrella in this 
fashion.” 

And Hadden, rising to his feet, mimicked in a comical fashion 
the airs of a dandy swinging his umbrella as he walked along. 

Willie clasped his hands together, and his eyes opened as wide as 
if they were about to start from their sockets. 

“ The hundred pounds for me!” he cried. 

Mother Gibb dropped her knitting, and stared at the lad. 

“Eh? what?” gasped Hadden, who, speaking at a venture from 
the deductions he had been able to make on his examination of Jean 
Gorbal’s house, had certainly not expected that he would hit the 
mark so closely as Willie’s exclamation seemed to betoken he had 
done. 

“ Was it a white hat the dandy chap had on?” asked Willie, breath- 
lessly. 

“Maybe,” answered Hadden, nodding sagaciously, while he was 
trembling lest anything should disappoint the anticipations he 
had already formed, and desirous rather to make Willie declare 


A HARD ILNOT. 


97 


everything he knew by concealing his own ignorance on the sub- 
ject 

** And a blue scarf?’’ continued Willie. 

"‘Very like.” 

"" And a pin wi’ a horseshoe and diamond nails?” 

"" That’s liker him still.” 

Then that was the chap that nearly tumbled ower me at the cor- 
ner, and gied me a crack wi’ his umbreller for being in his way.” 

“ What color trousers?” 

Snuffy brown.” 

That was not the color of the trousers Hadden had found in Taven- 
dale’s lodgings; and in his excitement at the discovery upon the 
brink of which he seemed to be standing, he clutched his staff 
viciously. ‘ « 

What color and shaped coat?” 

Dark blue coat, and short cut.” 

That was not the color of Tavendale’s coat, nor the shape, so far 
as he could understand from the brief description “short cut.” 

“ I told you, mistress, the lad was born for the force!” cried Had- 
den, exultantly; and again, to the boy: “You’ll make the fortune, 
Willie, that’s certain. One thing more — about what o’clock was it 
when the swell tumbled on you?” 

“ It was after dark — maybe about eight o’clock.” 

That was the hour— at any rate, near enough to serve the pur- 
pose. 

“And what made you notice his get-up so closely?” 

“Because he gied me a knock with his umbreller.” 

"‘Did you see his face?” 

""No partickler; my een got sort o’ fastened on the blue scarf and 
the bonny pin, and the chap went on as fast as he could when he 
gied me the blow, and I went on a bit, hollering after him. That 
was how I noticed his trousers and coat, when he passed under the 
lamp. I called him a blue devil for his coat, and snuffy swell for 
his trousers.” 

“You saw where he went to, then?” 

"‘Ay, he went into Higgin’s Close, a bit after he thought I’d 
stopped following him.” 

Hadden gripped the boy by the arm. 

"‘ Higgin’s Close? that’s just behind Jean Gorbal’s house.” 

“That’s the spot — dinna squeeze my arm, maisterl it’s rather 
hard.” 

"" Why didn’t you tell us about this before?” 

" ‘ Naebody axed me. ” 

“ Would you know the swell again?” 

“I’d ken his back, for I took hffe measure.” 

5 


98 


A HARD KNOT. 


. “What height was he?” 

“ Nearly six foot.” 

“You wouldn’t know his face again?” 

“Maybe I would, if he were dressed in the same togs as I saw 
him in that nicht,” 

“ Willie, your fortune’s made.” 

“Hooroar!” 

And Willie, in his delight, displayed a strong inclination to stand 
on his head again. 

“ You’ll let him go with me, mistress?” 

“ I winna say nae, if the lad likes,” answered Mother Gibb, who, 
although interested at the prospect of the reward, was stolid as ever. 
“ But you’ll have to give me the cash if there’s ony comes o’ what 
Willie’s tauld ye.” 

“All right, mistress; I’ll take care of that. You know where to 
hear of Jock Sly if you want hiin, so that you needn’t be afraid of 
the Cash getting into the wrong hands. Good-evening, mistress. 
Come along, Willie, my lad.” 

“Are you gaun to gie me the hundred pounds?” 

“ Come and see.” 

Willie, nothing loath, darted down the stairs to the street, his 
bushy, unkempt, and dirty hair tossing about his head confusedly 
in the wind. A cap was a luxury with which he was almost wholly 
unacquainted. 

Hadden followed him, and proceeded with liim in the direction 
of Higgin’s Close. 


CHAPTER XXI. 

IN THE STABLE-YARD. 

Kate had retained lier position in the lobby of the sheriff’s cham- 
bers until the last; but she was not aware that the business was over 
for the day until the door by which she was standing was flung 
open, and several clerks and constables hurried out. 

She was hustled back from the door, and she would have been 
thrown down had it not been for a tall gentleman who gripped her 
arm and supported her. 

“Miss Cargill I” he ejaculated, in a low, startled kind of voice. 
“I did not know you were here— the fiscal understood you were 
too ill to attend.” 

Her mind was so much occupied with the one cruel thought that 
she paid no heed ; she did not even seem to observe that a gentleman 
who was a stranger to her was acquainted with her name. 


A HARD KNOT. 


99 


“ What has been done?” she asked, trembling with excitement. 

“The examination has been adjourned till this day week,” was 
' the respectful answer. 

“ Adjourned — oh, then he will be saved! I knew that they could 
not condemn him. He will be saved 1” 

“I hope so, madam — sincerely hope so, for your sake as well as 
his own; but he is very obstinate, and I am afraid will do himself 
more harm by his obstinacy than they can do by all the evidence 
they can bring to bear against him.” 

“You are his friend?” 

“Yes, my name is Hewitt; I am his agent in this unhappy af- 
fair.” 

“You his agent— you wull save him 1” 

Mr. Hewitt looked somewhat gloomy, and shook his head as he 
replied : 

“Whatever can be done to. help him I will do; rest assured of 
that.” 

“Heaven bless you, sir — heaven bless you!” she cried, tearfully, 
although her eyes were parched, and she pressed his bend warmly. 

“ Shall I conduct you to the carriage, madam?” he said abruptly, 
as if anxious to avoid any expression of her gratitude while affairs 
were still in such a doubtful state. ‘ ‘ Mr. Cargill is still in the office, 
and I will inform him that you are waiting. ” 

“ No, no, thank you! I — oh, here is Easton!” 

That lady advanced to her mistress as her name was pronounced. 
She had long ago grown tired of waiting in the carriage, and so she 
had made her w'ay hither in order to beguile the time by observing 
events. 

Mr. Hewitt resigned the lady to the care of her attendant, and, 
apologizing for the necessity of abruptly taking his leave, w^as about 
to go away, when Kate detained his hand. 

“One word, sir: can you, can any one, obtain for me permission 
to see Mr. Tavendale to-day?” 

“I am afraid not to-day, madam; but I will try to obtain an or- 
der from one of the sheriffs.” 

“A sheriff can give the order ?” 

“Certainly.” 

“Thank you, sir; I will not in that case have to delay you. One 
of the sheriffs is a — is a friend.” 

“I. shall be most happy to serve you, and should you fail to see 
your friend, you can send to my office in an hour, and I will do my 
best to procure the order.” 

He hurried away, and disappeared immediately among the crowd 
outside. ■ 

“Take me to some place where I can wait while you carry a 


100 


A HARD KNOT. 


message to Mr. Lyon,” she said quickly. She was very weak, but 
the excitement of the occasion seemed to give her unusual strength. 

“We can go to the Royal George, ma’am,” said Easton, whose 
mind was chiefly occupied with thoughts of dinner. “It’s a fine 
hotel, quite close to here, and you can have something nice to eat; 
you must be hungry by this time — I am, although we had a glass of 
wine and a couple of biscuits.” 

Kate almost sickened at the mention of food, but she submitted 
to be conducted to the Royal George, where she was shown into a 
private parlor overlooking the stable-yard. 

Easton was directed to bid the coachman put his horse in tlie 
stable, while Kate, seating herself at a little table by the window, 
hastily penned a few lines to Mr. Lyon. 

Much to Easton’s indignation, she was despatched at once with 
the note, without being allowed time to consume another glass of 
wine and couple of biscuits, much less to obtain dinner. 

Kate had risen to give her the note, and she now stood at the win- 
dow looking vacantly out upon the old-fashioned yard. The Royal 
George was an old-fashioned establishment, slow and steady in its 
ways. The house was always quiet and respectable. There was 
no confusion — no rushing about of commercial travellers in a hurry 
to catch trains, tumbling luggage about, and shouting to porters. 
Everything about the place was slow and conservative, and the only 
days on which its tranquillity was disturbed were the market-days, 
when burly, conservative country people of the middle classes came 
to dine and discuss the markets, and waken the house to life. 

As this did not happen to be one of the lively days, Kate was un- 
disturbed by any jarring sounds ; but her reverie Avas suddenly in- 
terrupted, and her eyes frightened by something she saw. 

Hewitt, Alick’s solicitor, crossed the yard, and entered the stable, 
as if seeking some one. He came out immediately, as if he had 
been disappointed; and as he was recrossiug the yard he w^as sa- 
luted by an hostler, who, pitchfork in hand, had just descended the 
ladder h-om the hayloft opposite to the window at which Kate was 
standing now, observant. 

She could not hear their w^ords, but she was somewhat surprised 
to observe the air of familiarity with which the hostler appeared to 
address Mr. Hewitt, and the quiet way in which the latter submitted 
to it, as if it were the customary style of their intercourse. 

The hostler was a smart fellow of stunted growth, who had been 
a jockey, and might have been one still. His slight build and short 
figure, with the bare face, gave one an impression, at a distance, that 
he was quite a youth. This impression was heightened by the style 
of his dress. He was a bit of a dandy in his own way, and alfectcd 
the fastest colors and the loudest. 


A HARD IC^OT. 


101 


Although in his stable garb he could not display much of his 
fashionable propensities, there was enough left in his working attire 
to indicate the man of the turf. 

On approaching him, the lines about his mouth and small, cun- 
ning eyes seemed to contradict the notion of his age which his 
general appearance supplied, and one was compelled to admit that 
it was impossible to hazard a guess as to what might be his age, be- 
tween twenty-five and forty. 

Leaning coolly on his pitchfork, he surveyed Mr. Hewitt with the 
manner of an equal and a familiar. The lawyer was evidently 
chagrined by the fellow’s manner; but either not having the power 
to correct, or not being willing to make a fuss about so small a 
matter, he swung his slim umbrella, and tried to look indifferent and 
unembarrassed. As a variety to the swinging movement he placed 
the umbrella behind him, and leaned heavily upon it, occasionally 
glancing at his watch as if lip had an appointment, and was in a 
hurry to depart. 

“You were to have been here i’ the mornin’.” 

“Yes; but, confound it, haven’t I told you I had to be at the 
fiscal’s all day?” 

‘ ‘ Oh, it’s of no consequence to me ; only I hope, now you’ve come, 
that you’ve brought the cash ; because there’ll be a blow-up if it is 
not paid to-night, every farthing.” 

“ Well, I have not brought it, and it can’t be paid to-night, or to- 
morrow night either.” 

‘ ‘ Phew !” whistled the hostler ; and he began to chew a straw, while 
he watched the discontented face of Hewitt cunningly. 

“Now, look here, Nick,” said the latter, familiarly persuasive; 
“ get the old beggar to give me ten days longer, and he’ll have all 
that he ought to get, and more. If he blows upon me now — why, 
that will ruin me at once, and that won’t help you or him either.” 

Nick appeared to reflect, and then said, quietly: 

“All right. I’ll see the old chap, and learn what he is going to 
do; then I’ll come round to you to-night.” 

“ What time?” 

“Twelve.” 

“That’ll do. Remember to tell him that he must wait if he 
wants to get anything.” 

“I’ll tell him.” 

Mr. Hewitt, muttering something about expecting to see him at 
twelve, hurried out of the yard. 


102 


A HARD KNOT. 


CHAPTER XXII. 

CURIOUS OBSERVATIONS. 

Kate observed that Mr. Hewitt quitted the stable-yard with the 
gait of one who is much dissatisfied about something, while at- 
tempting, by holding his head higher than usual, to conceal the dis- 
satisfaction. It was, in fact, the gait of a person who attempts to 
display perfect confidence by fhe assumption of a swagger and a 
bold look. Mr. Hewitt swaggered — that is, swaggered so far as the 
term might be applied to one who maintained always the bearing 
and manner of the strictest respectability — and, either by accident 
or design, his hat had been tipped a little to one side, which, as some- 
times happens with such trifling alteration of the arrangement of the 
dress, gave his grave, subdued person a somewhat rakish character, 

Kate was struck by this singular change in one upon whose ex- 
ertions the life of her husband depended ; she was unpleasantly dis- 
turbed by the change, for, knowing little of the gentleman, she could 
not help feeling for the moment that the characteristics of the man 
about town w^erc too easily assumed by the lawyer not to possess 
some inspiration from his real nature, which was totally concealed 
in the course of his business transactions. 

She had been struck, too, by the familiarity wuth which the hostler 
had treated him, and the persuasive manner of Hewitt, as if he had 
been seeking some favor from the fast-looking personage, who dis- 
played all the characteristics of the blackleg in his sharp, cunning 
face. 

The low cunning of the fellow became all the more marked in the 
vicious grin wdth which he watched Mr. Hewitt leave the yard. 
Then he tucked the pitchfork under his arm, and leering, as if with 
the greatest gratification at the thought of having “ done ” some one, 
he made his way to the stable-door, where he entered into conversa- 
tion wuth the coachman who had driven Miss Cargill into the city, 
and who was lingering about the stables to see his horses baited. 

All these things Kate noted with an attention the source of which,, 
had she tried, she could not possibly have explained; unless it might 
be— as it certainly had been at first — that she felt her own future so 
depended on Mr. Hewitt that his every movement was of interest 
to her now. 


A HARD KNOT. 


103 


In a dreamy way she mentally asked herself what could have 
been the nature of his interview with that disagreeable character; 
Her cheeks glowed with the fancy — springing readily from the con- 
centration of her thought on the one subject — that the interview 
bore some relation to Jean Gorbal’s fate, and that Mr. Hewitt, in his 
zeal for the cause of his client^ had subjected himself to the annby- 
ance he had evidently experienced in the conversation with the hostler. 

Easton returned in anything but a pleasant humor. ]Mr. Lyon 
had gone away ten minutes before she had reached the office. She 
had not followed him, because nobody had been able to tell her 
which way he had gone, or whether he had gone home or not. 

“Mr. Hewitt has just left the yard,” said Kate, hastily; “ rhn 
after him and ask him to spare me a few minutes of his time.” 

Easton went outr— she did not run, however — and she looked up 
and dowm the street. She did not venturelbeyond the door-step, for 
rain had begun to fall, and she had no intention of spoiling her bon- 
net, or getting her feet wet. It was one of those sudden spring 
showers which are short and heavy while they last. 

She did not see Mr. Hewitt, but she did see a hansom cab driving 
off at full speed, and running alongside the cab a ragged urchin, 
who was apparently trying to speak to the occupant. 

The occupant was Mr. Hewitt. He had just got into the cab, and 
as it started, the boy — who was now running by its side, straining 
his limbs to keep pace with it — had made after it with more than 
the usual eagerness of the street Arab who hopes to win a gratuity. 

“Got a bawbee, sir?” shouted the lad, panting and breathless, 
while he strove to get sufficiently beyond the wheel to be able to see 
the gentleman inside. “ Ba-wbee, sir?” 

The persistence of the lad attracted the lawyer’s attention, and he 
leaned forward to look at him with some curiosity. 

“ Stand clear!” shouted the driver, flourishing his whip threaten- 
ingly. 

Whether the lad was satisfied, by the glance he had obtained at 
the gentleman’s face, that he was not likely to obtain the copper 
he sought, or was intimidated by the driver, he gradually slackened 
pace, allowed the cab to shoot ahead, and, as soon as it had turned 
the corner, he wheeled about, and retraced his way towards the 
Royal George. 

Within fifty yards of that establishment he almost rushed into the 
arms of John Hadden, who, flushed with excitement, and a little out 
of temper, gripped him by the arm, and shook him savagely. 

“What were you after, Willie,lad?” he said presently, in a kindlier 
tone than his look would have induced one to expect. “ Why did 
you dart away from me without a word when I was going into the 
tailor’s, eh, lad— what was’t for?” 


104 


A HARD KNOT. 


Willie Thome gave himself a slmke, as if to get his limbs into the 
position out of which they had been shaken by his patron. 

“What did I bolt for?” he said, somewhat sulkily. “ Because I 
saw the chap that hit me wi’ his umbrella Monday week.” 

‘ ‘ Thunder ! — where ?” 

“ Getting into that cab ye saw me running after.” 

“Eh— eh!” cried the detective, clutching his staff with the air of 
one beside himself with chagrin. “And why didn’t you shout to 
me instead of bolting off, as if you wanted to give me the slip?” 

“ I didna think o’t.” 

“Did you see his face?” 

“Ay, but it wasna the face I kenned; it was the back and shoul- 
ders — them I’d swear to — and the umbrella.” 

Mr. Hadden clutched his staff still more tightly, and seemed ready 
to perform a dance of despair. 

‘ ‘ Thunder 1 and I did not see him— but you would know him again?” 

“ Ay, ony where.” 

“Would you know the driver of the cab?” 

“ Ay, ony where.” 

“ Come on, then; I must get you- into a suit of clothes, and then, 
if our bird’s in Glasgow, we’ll find him before he’s much older.” 

Hadden conducted his pi'otege to a cheap, ready -made-clothing es- 
tablishment, where he obtained for him the requisite garments. 
When he had been properly arrayed — having been allowed to wash 
himself in a little back room of the shop, Willie Thorne presented 
the appearance of a smart lad, with a premature gravity of visage. 

Easton had remained. at the door of the Royal George until Had- 
den and his little comrade had disappeared. She had observed 
Hadden hurry by the door, and encounter the boy who had been 
running after the cab; and as she had only a few days ago had some 
dealings with Hadden, she was interested — or rather her curiosity, 
which was a potent element of her character, was piqued — and in 
spite of the danger to her bonnet she had remained at the door 
watching him, and even thrust her head out partly in the rain to 
obtain a last glimpse of him as he turned a corner. 

Then she went back to her mistress with the information that her 
utmost exertions had failed to discover Mr. Hewitt. 

Kate impatiently looked at her watch. 

“He said he would be at his office in an hour, and it is nearly an 
hour since then. I will go there now. Do you know the place?” 

“Mr. Hewitt’s?” answered Easton, indifferently. “No, I don’t 
know where it is, but Mr. Cargill will be here directly, and he will 
be able to tell you.” 

“ My father coming here? Then you have told him!” exclaimed 
Kate, with a flash of displeasure. 


A HARD KNOT. 


105 


“I met him at the otRce when I was looking for Mr. Lyon, and 
the minute he saw me he asked where you were. I. couldn’t tell 
him anything hut the truth, for he’d have been sure—” 

“I w’^ould not have wished you to do otherwise,” 

“That was just what I thought, ma’am — miss, I should say,” 
continued Easton, pertly, and by that apparent slip of the tongue re- 
minding her mistress of her confidential position; “and so I told 
him you were here, and he bade me say that you were not to leave 
on any account until he joined you.” 

Kate seated herself wearily; the reaction from the excitement 
which had supported her weak frame all day had begun, and it soon 
became evident that, even had she purposed to disobey her father’s 
message, she would not have had the strength. She was compelled 
to rest upon the couch. But she was reconciled to her position in 
some degree by the hope that her father would obtain for her the 
permission to see Tavendale she so much desired. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

THE millionaire’s DAUGHTERS. 

She sat with elbow resting on the side of the couch, and her 
feverish brow on her hand. Her eyes were parched and aching, 
her pulse fluttering, and her whole strength so exhausted that she 
felt as if she could not move from the position she had assumed. 
But the sense of her bodily ailment was almost entirely lost in the 
bitter trouble of her mind. 

Easton took advantage of her mistress’s abstraction to quit the 
apartment in search of dinner, which all the trouble in the world 
did not seem capable of making her forget or neglect. 

Mr. Cargill arrived soon afterwards, and he entered the room 
leaning heavily on his staff and the arm of his footman. Without, 
apparently, glancing towards Kate, he dropped on a chair by the 
centre-table, and by a motion of his hand dismissed the attendant. 

A few minutes of silence, during which the shame-stricken man 
glanced slowly round the chamber. His eyes rested an instant on a 
large Chinese screen near the fireplace, and then passed on to his 
daughter. Her head drooped before him; yet there was no anger in 
his glance. The rigid, shrunken features betrayed neither wrath nor 
sympathy; but the bent form, which had previously been so erect, 
and the dull, stolid eyes, which had been only a little while ago so 
keen and bright, indicated how much the man was suffering. How 
poor was all his wealth, now that it could not purchase any balm to 
soothe his agony! 


5 * 


IOC 


A HARD KNOT. 


“I thought you were to remain at home, Katie?” he said, in a 
voice so feeble and pitiable that, with a sob, she half rose to tlirow 
her arms round his neck and comfort him. 

The tone and manner revealed to her how dear she was to him 
in his distress. And yet he checked the movement of her affection 
by raising his hand, which dropped immediately on his knee like a 
lump of lead. 

“I am not going to blame you, my poor child,” he continued, in 
the same pitiable voice as before. “Heaven knows I am bitterly 
conscious that the blame of what you do, and of the affliction that 
has befallen you, rests upon myself. But it would have been wiser, 
I think, for Alick Tavendale’s sake, had you obeyed me. Your mar- 
riage with him does not appear to have become known yet, and so long 
as it can be concealed, it will be one argument the less against him.” 
- “ I — I could not rest, father, knowing his cruel position. I should 
have gone mad had I remained at home. Ah, I am indeed punished 
for deceiving you, since our marriage argues so fatally against his 
innocence. But is it so fatal that we must conceal it?” 

“I do not know. I have consulted his agent, and he thinks that 
unless the revelation is unavoidable we should not make it.” 

Kate bowed her head, as an attendant appeared. 

“The young lady is here, sir.” 

■ “ Bid her enter.” 

The door closed on the attendant. 

“Take a seat behind that screen,” Mr. Cargill said, with a shade 
of his old firmness in the command. “You can hear what passes, 
but it will be better that you should not be seen at first.” 

Without seeking any further explanation of this singular com- 
mand, Kate obeyed, and took a seat on a chair behind the screen. 

The rustling of her dress had scarcely ceased when Sarah Burnett 
was introduced to the chamber. 

. She remained standing near the door. She was pale, but self-pos- 
sessed and respectful. The deep emotion she experienced in being 
thus brought for the first time into immediate contact with her father 
was only indicated by the faintest tremor of her lips. 

“ Be seated, Sarah Cargill,” he said coldly. 

She trembled at the sound of the name he had given her, but she 
made no attempt to respond. She took a chair close by where she 
had been standing, as if she did not think herself warranted yet in 
displaying any familiarity. Her humility appeared to displease him 
much, for he said sharply: 

“ Come nearer, girl ! Are you a fool? Come nearer! Am I not 
your father?” 

Still without replying, and trembling under his displeasure and the 
natural agitation with which her peculiar position inspired her, she 


A HARD KNOT. 


107 


advanced to a chair almost within arm’s reach of her parent. Her 
hack was turned towards the window, so that, unhappily, he could 
not readily perceive the agitation he caused her, else he might have 
spoken more mildly. 

“You have found your father,” he said sternly, “hut you must 
learn that at the same time you have lost your liberty. I require im^ 
plicit obedience from all who — who are connected with me. ” 

Sarah acknowledged her readiness to obey by a simple inclination 
of the head. She had received a severe shock in the examination she 
had undergone in the fiscal’s office, and she had not yet recovered 
from its effects sufficiently to be able to conduct herself with her or- 
dinary calmness — a calmness which supplied her character with a 
firmness equal to that of Mr. Cargill himself, in the days when he had 
felt himself furthest and safest from the exposure of the past. 

In the office Mr. Cargill, after his examination, had been conducted 
to a seat close to Sarah; and, as soon as the proceedings had finished, 
Mr. Hewitt had directed his attention to his daughter. The humili- 
ated millionaire thanked him, and then told his servant to bring 
Miss Burnett after him. The accidental encounter with Easton had 
decided where the interview he meditated should take place. 

- Now that she w^as before him, the unreasoning passion which he 
felt at the thought that she w\as the primary cause of his exposure 
quickened the sense of his humiliation, and made him feel disposed 
to hate her. So, much of his old, cold sternness returned to him.- 

At the same time Sarah’s consciousness of how little she merited 
unkind treatment from him stirred the pride of her heart, and did 
more to restore her self-possession than anything else could have 
done. ^ 

At this point there was little amiability, and no sympathy, in the 
regards which father and daughter fixed on each other. 

- “Circumstances have violently altered my plans,” said the mill- 
ionaire at length, in a dry, severe tone. “You have been defrauded 
of your birthright, of your name, and the position you should have 
occupied. That shall be amended in so far that from this date forth 
you are Sarah Cargill— the name, the fortune, all that I have to give, 
is yours.” 

- “ Oh, sir, I — ” 

“Be silent, or at least reserve your thanks until you know how far 
they are merited. Understand me: all that I am now doing is done 
under- compulsion, and, had circumstances permitted, my daughter 
Kate would never have been dragged from the position I had given 
her to change places with you.” 

“I understand you, sir,’’, replied Sarah, quietly. “The act by 
which you deprived me of what belongs to me was a cruel and a 
guilty one; but I know that, once committed, you had no alternative 


108 


A HARD KNOT. 


but to carry out the deception to the end. Your position is too 
prominent to have permitted a voluntary restitution of my rights, 
and in my heart I wish that it had been possible to save your name 
from ignominy at the cost of any wrong to me.” 

This answer surprised the father, and agreeably, although he con- 
cealed his satisfaction, and continued coldly, as before, 

“I have no right to your affection or esteem; I do not expect 
either; but deference and obedience I demand. At the age of thirty- 
nine, when my father died, I could not recall one occasion on which I 
had contradicted him, or interrupted him when he was speaking, as 
you have done ; or of having passed judgment on his acts, as you 
have done on mine. These are facts for you to remember. Enough 
of them for the present. By to-morrow that portion of Mavisbank 
House which was formerly occupied by your mother will be pre- 
pared for your reception. Carriages and servants will be placed at 
your command, with such an allo-wance as will enable you to main- 
tain your position. What introductions I may still be able to give 
you shall have; and as soon as this trial is over we will proceed to 
the Continent until time has, in some degree, smoothed the memory 
of this scandal. I need not warn you to be circumspect in your 
conduct, as you will be the object of innumerable curious and im- 
pertinent attentions. You will feel that for yourself, and you will 
act accordingly. What education have you received?” 

“ Sufficiently good, sir, to prevent me disgracing the high position 
in which you wish to place me,” she rejoined, modestly. 

“ Can you ride?” 

“No, sir; not at all. But if necessary I will be a perfect horse- 
woman in six months, or break my neck.” 

“It is necessary to become a horsewoman and break nothing. 
These arc trivial things, and can easily be managed. But what can- 
not be managed easily is to enable you to bear up against this hor- 
rible disgrace so that you obtain the proper respect due to your po- 
sition. With that w^e must deal as events shall dictate. A coward 
might send you abroad and hide his own head anywhere from the 
gaze of the world. But I am no coward, and I will brave the shame 
my own act has brought upon me. You shall suffer no longer for 
my guilt. To begin with, you shall accompany me now to Mavis- 
bank, and I will openly present yoJi to the household as Miss Car- 
gill." 

The old man, proud still, even in his disgrace, had spoken with 
growing warmth in his resolution boldly to meet all the scorn that 
might be cast upon him. He rose from his seat and approached the 
bell, as if about to order the carnage at once for the journey to Mavis- 
bank House. 

Sarah intervened. 


A HARD KNOT. 


109 


She had listened to her father with vision dazzled by the brilliance 
of the prospect he held out to her. It was to her the grand trans- 
formation scene effected by the magic of a fairy’s wand, from the 
straits and troubles of petty respectability to the ease and magnifi- 
cence of unlimited wealth. But she kept strict guard upon her vis- 
age, and revealed nothing of the real delight with which she viewed 
the future. She listened with an air of sorrow, as if the position 
were forced upon her against her will. 

“Will you permit me to say something, sir, before you summon 
^your servant?” 

“As you please.” 

“ Then first, sir, believe me, I feel the generosity with which you 
are prepared to sacrifice your own feelings for my sake; I feel it 
more than I can tell you. I am sensible of the many advantages 
you are about to confer upon me, although I would have enjoyed 
them more -had they cost you less. I had no expectation of being 
received by you in this generous way, and therefore your proposi- 
tion — or perhaps I should say your commands — falling upon me 
so suddenly, and requiring such a total change in my life, confuse 
me a little, and render it difficult for me to see at once what course 
duty requires me to follow.” 

“Your duty is to obey me.” 

“Do not be angry with me, sir,” she said meekly, and drooping 
her eyes respectfully before his stern regard, ‘ ‘ but you cannot, 
you must not, forget that I have formed other ties before I was 
aware that I owed you any duty; and these ties make some demand 
upon me, even as I know there are tics which make some demand 
upon you. The unhappy revelation of my true position has been 
violent and wretched enough without our making it more violent 
by new injustice to others.” 

“ You speak boldly,” replied Mr. Cargill, with some asperity. 

“I hope not, sir. I hope I aiii only speaking truth which you 
must feel as well as myself.” 

With a curt motion of the head he seemed to bid her proceed. 

“I trust you will see that, sir; at any rate, I will try to show you 
that it is as much my respect for you as any other sentiment which 
urges me to speak.” Sarah was gaining confidence as she went on, 
for, despite his evident impatience, she saw that he* was impressed 
by the simple earnestness of her manner. 

He offered her no word of encouragement, however. He sat with 
his thin lips closed tightly, and brows knit, watching her narrowly. 

“You will forgive me, sir,” she continued, in a subdued, respect- 
ful manner, “if I begin by reminding you of— of Kate— my sister.” 

He started, then inclined his head, without speaking. 

“In your wish to repair the wrong done to me, you are— pardon 


110 


A HARD KNOT. 


me, sir, if the words seem disrespectful — you are forgetting what is 
due to her. You would take me to Mavisbank and present me to 
your household as Miss Cargill, the future mistress of the establish- 
ment. By doing so, can you not see in what a disagreeable position 
you place me with regard to her? You submit her to the unpleasant 
comments and impertinent gaze of the few who may be from any 
cause indifferent to her — there can be none who positively dislike 
her — and you submit me to the not less unpleasant contempt of the 
many who have good reason to love and respect her.” 

“There are none who dare question my decision,” he said, dryly- 

“Perhaps not, sir; but there are a thousand ways in which people 
may show contempt for me wuthout openly questioning your de- 
cision. But to that I can be w^holly indifferent. All that people 
might look or think or say, I could pass unheeded, but I know that 
Kate could not. She would fret under it, and blame herself for 
anything that I might have to suffer. When people pointed to me 
as the mistress of the house — as one who had rushed into her posi- 
tion with the eagerness of a victor into a conquered fort — she would 
smart under it, because she has a good, generous heart and would 
know that I was blamed in propoi’tion as she was loved.” 

“And are you afraid of what people may say of you in reclaim- 
ing your proper position?” he asked, with a degree of contempt. 

“ No, sir, I am not afraid of what anybody might say or think; 
but I am afraid of what I might feel myself. And I know that were 
I to rush into your house I should feel like a vicious creature, that, 
happening to obtain a little strength, snatched at the nest of some 
simple bird and destroyed it. I am afraid of feeling that, sir, and 
until I know that my sister Kate is to be regarded as my equal in 
name and fortune — in all things — I will not, even for your com- 
mand, sir, which I should be sorry to oppose, move from my pres- 
ent position.” 

Again Mr. Cargill was surprised, and agreeably so. These were 
generous words, spoken by one who had been grievously wronged, 
and from whom they could least have been expected. The bright 
flush on her pale face indicated the depth of her sincerity. Kate 
was very dear to him; and if Sarah had been trying to gain his af- 
fection and esteem, she could not have taken anymore effectual meth- 
od than this. 

Kate herself, who, with hands clasped on her knees, was listening 
to it all, was deeply touched by the expression of Sarah’s sympathy. 

“Be satisfied;” said Mr. Cargill, in a softer tone than he had yet 
used, although masking the comfort he experienced in her words; 
“be satisfied; Kate shall be cared for as tenderly as you could wish. 
But how her future conduct may be regulated I cannot say until 
this unhappy trial is over.” 


A HARD KNOT. 


Ill 


“Ah, sir!” exclaimed Sarah, with hands moving nervously, as if 
she longed to clasp her father round the neck and hug him to her 
heart, “ you cannot know how much relief you have given me. You 
have, too, supplied me with one of the strongest arguments for de- 
laying my removal to Mavisbank as your daughter, I know how 
much my sister has at stake in this terrible trial — ” 

“ You know!” he interrupted, half rising from his chair in alarm. 

“ Yes, she told me herself to-day; and when you know how deep- 
ly I feel the trouble that has befallen her, you will not, you cannot, 
ask me to add to her grief by any act of mine, or any act of yours 
that I may prevent.” 

“ Yes — yes,” he muttered, shading his eyes with his hand. 

‘ ‘ There is one more argument, sir, why I should remain as I am 
for a little w'hile, Mrs. Burnett — ” 

“Ah!” The ejaculation was sharp and spasmodic; it indicated 
that all these years of separation had not wholly extinguished the 
power of the man’s fatal passion. 

“Mrs. Burnett, the mother of Katherine, and whom I have regarded 
and loved as my own until within a very few days ” — Sarah’s voice 
faltered here, and Mr. Cargill still shaded his eyes — “she is lying at 
the point of death. Would you have me neglect the sacred duty 
which calls me to her side at such a time as the present? Surely 
not, sir.” 

“Sarah!” exclaimed Mr, Cargill, under his breath; and his chin 
sank on his breast as he leaned back on his chair, thinking of the 
past, which had been resuscitated with so much bitterness. 

“ She has done me grievous harm, deceived me when I trusted 
most,” he muttered, replying to his own thoughts; “ she has marred 
my life, and made my age a shame. But am I to be implacable? 
She is dying — dying under the horrible disgrace which has fallen 
on Kate — our child, and through me alone the disgrace exists. At 
this hour what consolation might not a word from me bring her?” 

He rose hastily to his feet. 

“ I will go with you,” 

Sarah seemed to be alarmed by this unexpected proposition. 

“ You, sir? Ah, no. Do not make yourself a witness of a specta- 
cle that would trouble you always. Mrs, Burnett lives, perhaps; 
but all sense, every faculty of the mind, has vanished. She could 
never recognize you, nor hear; and even if the past were so potent 
that your voice might recall her to consciousness, even for a mo- 
ment, it would only be to kill her, sir; for the shock w^ould be much 
too great for her feeble frame to endure a moment after.” 

The tears in Sarah’s eyes seemed to fascinate the man, and soft- 
ened him tow^ards her more even than her generous self-denial had 
done. He breathed with difficulty, and, extending his hands, he 


112 


A HARD KNOT. 


drew her slowly to his side, then kissed her affectionately on the 
brow. 

“Go, then, alone, my child; and give me early tidings whether 
she is better or worse.” 

“ Thank you,” she said, in a low, tremulous tone, affected by the 
address, “my child;” and, drawing a long breath, she added, ‘'my 
father. ” 

There was a brief pause, during which the choking sobs of Kate 
would surely have been heard by Sarah had her own thoughts and 
feelings been a degree less absorbed. 

“You are a good girl, I think,” said Mr. Cargill, slowly, “and 
I may yet learn to be grateful that my sin has’ received its punish- 
ment, since I have found you.” 

“ It shall not be my fault if you do not, father,” she answered, 
simply. “ But, for the present, my place is by the side of her who 
has been as a mother to me. ” 

A soft hand was laid upon her arm as she spoke, and, turning her 
head quickly, she looked into the tearful eyes of Kate. 

“ Your place is here, Sarah,” said the sweet voice; “ my place is 
by the bed of my dying mother.” 

But, indeed, it seemed as if she needed some one to nurse her rather 
than she should nurse another, for she was so weakened by the men- 
tal and physical suffering she had undergone that she had only tot- 
tered across the room to speak, and at the moment she would have 
fallen had not Sarah’s strong, protecting arm encircled her waist, 
and supported her to a chair. 

“You must not think of that, Kate,” she said, in a low, firm 
voice; “you are quite unfit for such a task. You have already suf- 
fered too much. For Alick Tavendale’s sake, for your father’s and 
for mine, you must not kill yourself outright; nay, you shall not.” 

“But my mother — my own mother — is dying!” cried Kate, sob- 
bing bitterly; “and I must go to her — I must speak to her.” 

“Alas! that is impossible for the present,” interrupted Sarah, 
trying to soften the pain she was compelled to cause; “you could 
not help her, and you would only add to your own distress. Dear 
Kate, you have been in the room — you have heard me. You know 
that I love you ; yield to me in this, then— at least, until you have 
obtained rest, or until I am able to send you tidings that you may 
come.” 

“Sarah is right,” said Mr. Cargill, huskily; “you must remain 
with me for the present.” 

“ To-morrow — ” began Sarah. 

“Ah, to-morrow,” interrupted Kate, wringing her hands, and 
raising her sad, sweet face, as if in appeal to Heaven — “to-morrow 
she may be dead. ” 


A HARD KNOT. 


113 


Sarah looked distressfully to her father, and he paced the floor, 
glancing frequently at Kate with an expression of intense fear and 
pain. At length he halted, and spoke resolutely : 

“ Kate, you must submit to me in this. Your strength has been 
taxed far too much, and I begin to fear for your own safety. Y^ou 
must go home with me to-night; and to-morrow, if you are strong 
enough, I will myself take you to your mother.” 

Sarah made no comment upon this, but it was evident by the quick 
shade which flitted across her brow that she either did not approve 
of the arrangement, or doubted whether their coming on the mor- 
row would be of advantage to any of them. 

Kate tried to stifle her sobs and dry her eyes, then feebly she 
placed her hand in her father’s in token of submission. She did not 
even refer to her desire to see her husband that night, for she had 
become anxious for strength to accomplish the work of the morrow. 

Mr. Cargill ordered the carriage; and the brougham which had 
brought Kate to the city conveyed Sarah to Hill Street, while her fa- 
ther and sister were driven to Mavisbank. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

. A MEDICAL OPINION. 

Sarah would have been scarcely human if her interest in Mrs. 
Burnett had been so intense as to exclude all other thoughts and 
sentiments save those appropriate to the death-bed of a frail creature 
who had sinned and who had been punished. 

The woman had wronged her deeply; and now that the restora- 
tion to her rights was at hand she could not altogether repress the 
sense of exultation. She could not help, as she was being driven 
along in the brougham, lounging back on the soft seat, experiencing 
a warm glow of satisfaction at the thought that in a few days this 
vehicle would be at her command, with every luxury her heart could 
desire. It was a dazzling prospect to one who, although unac- 
quainted with positive want, had been compelled to let many little 
wishes go ungratified, and who had been compelled to learn the les- 
son of self-denial ; it was a dazzling prospect for her, that in which 
pinching and calculation would be wholly unnecessary, when she 
would only have to wish to possess. 

But when the carriage stopped at the house in Hill Street she had 
commanded her features to grave calmness; her eyes were a little 
brighter than usual, but that was the only indication of the pleasure 
she felt when she entered the house of death. The girl Susan had 
opened the door, and gazed in open-mouthed wonder at the grand 


114 


A HARD KKOT. 


conveyance in which her young mistress had arrived, as it drove 
away. 

“ Has any one been here for me?” asked Sarah, as she passed into 
the parlor. 

“ Yes, miss; Mr. Hewitt was here, and seemed to be very anxious 
to see you.” 

A sudden shade of trouble, or alarm, it might even have been 
called, flitted across Sarah's visage, and she spoke quickly : 

“ Why did he not wait?” 

‘"He said he couldn’t; but he’ll come back some time this after- 
noon, when he must see you. ” 

Sarah seemed to draw a quick breath, and then, as she proceeded 
to divest herself of bonnet and cloak, said, quietly, 

“ Has the doctor called?” 

“ He came just after you went out, and he did not look as though 
he was pleased with the state of the poor mistress. He came back 
again, and he’s there now.” 

“ Very well; I’ll go to him. If Mr. Hewitt returns you can bring 
him in here, and call me.” 

On entering the invalid’s chamber, Sarah, with a quick glance, 
observed that no change for the better had taken place during her 
absence; indeed, rather the reverse. 

Mrs, Burnett lay on her back, her eyes closed, and the once flne 
features so sharp and rigid that but for the occasional spasms which 
passed over them, and over the whole body, one might have thought 
her already dead. But, even with these pitiable indications of life, 
the face was so white and clammy with the perspiration of pain 
that it was more like death than life. 

Everywhere in the chamber were the signs of a severe illness: the 
close atmosphere, the many phials on the mantelpiece and the table, 
the basins and sponges, and the paper-covered glass in which lay 
half a dozen leeches. 

By the head of the patient stood a woman of middle age — a nurse 
whom Dr. Mitchell had insisted upon calling in to the assistance of 
Sarah. The doctor himself w^as seated beside the bed, holding the 
patient’s wrist, and watching her with a gloomy expression. He 
rose as Sarah entered. 

“ At last you have come,” he said gravely, shaking her hand. 

“ I was detained much longer than I expected,” she answered, as 
if feeling the necessity of an explanation. Then, w^atching him 
anxiously, she added, in a trembling voice, “Is she any better?” 

The doctor shook his head despondingly. 

“ She is worse,” he responded, reluctantly. “These spasms have 
recurred with alarming frequency since morning, and all that I have 
been able to do has failed to check them.” 


A HARD KNOT. 


115 


He stopped; Sarah had gripped his arm and turned her eyes to 
the invalid, who had moved and uttered a low moan. 

“ She has heard you.” 

“ I wish she had,” replied the doctor, “for that would be the best 
possible symptom. We shall see.” 

He advanced to Mrs. Burnett, and, taking her wrist again, he felt 
the pulse, while he watched her with the profoundest attention. 
Then he gently raised the lid of one of the eyes. 

The eye was glazed and stony, reflecting no ray of intelligence. 

“Judge for yourself,” he said, in a low voice; “take her hand 
and speak to her. Your voice will rouse her, if any human sound 
can.” 

Sarah, with a cold shudder, approached as directed, took the 
nerveless hand in hers, and, bending down so that her mouth was 
close to the ear of the invalid, murmured : 

“Mother, it is me, Sarah — your own Sarah. Speak to me — give 
me some sign that you hear.” But the features remained rigid; not 
the faintest breath or sign betokened intelligence. 

“You see,” said the doctor, after a long pause, during which the 
signal of hope was eagerly looked for; “ I told you how it was.” 

“ My poor mother!” exclaimed Sarah, low and huskily. “Is she 
in pain, sir?” 

“At this moment, no.” 

During this trial the nurse had passed over to the fireplace, and, 
after looking at the little gold watch which hung on a mahogany 
stand, proceeded quietly to prepare a mixture from one of the phi- 
als. She touched the doctor on the shoulder, and he took the glass 
from her. Then he desired Sarah to stand aside while he endeav- 
ored to coax the draught dowm the insensible invalid’s throat. He 
told Sarah that he was about to administer a powerful potion, and 
that if it failed he could do nothing more. 

Sarah, as if willing to escape the spectacle of the administration 
of this forlorn hope, passed over to the window, not sobbing or ut- 
tering any sound, but gently wiping her eyes with her handkerchief. 

Then she looked out upon the street, and saw the lamplighter 
speeding on his task, and, as the jets of light sparkled forth on the 
pavement, she saw men and women hurrying on their various w'ays. 
It seemed strange that none paused to look at the house where the 
last act of the sad tragedy of a life was being played out. 

What else did she think about while the woman who had wronged 
her, and who had yet given her so many proofs of maternal tender- 
ness, lay there dying? Did she regret her? Did she not think of 
the brilliant future which had that day been opened to her, and upon 
which she was so speedily to enter? Who can tell? 

She turned quickly at the sound of the doctor’s voice. 


116 


A HAKD KNOT. 


“ She has swallowed it; that is so far good. If in four hours she 
has not made any movement, we wdll give her another draught of 
the same potion. If in four hours after that she has still shown no 
sign of consciousness, we will give her a third, and the]J — ” 

“ And then?” said Sarah, quickly, as the doctor paused. 

He made no answer, but slightly turned away his face from her 
eager, inquiring eyes. 

“I understand your silence, doctor,” she murmured brokenly, 
“for I remember that even when you first saw her you said she was 
lost.” 

“ Scientifically, yes, perhaps. But I do not despair even yet.” 
He was evidently speaking rather to soothe the daughter’s affliction 
than out of any great faith he had in the result of his labors. “ Only 
last year I witnessed a case of paralysis almost exactly similar to 
this. A great and sudden calamity occurred — the man was stricken 
down; and yet, after lying for more than a week in an insensible 
condition, he recovered, and is alive yet, although he has lost the use 
of his left side, and his mind is somewhat weakened.” 

“ Ah, tliat is what I dread almost as much as her death — that she 
should live and yet be dead to us. But is there no hope that she 
will recover, even for a little while — recover sufficiently to be able to 
recognize those around her, and speak to them, however briefiy?” 

Sarah put the question with strange eagerness — the eagerness not 
so much of dread that such an event was beyond hope, but rather 
of some inexplicable fear that it was not beyond hope. This pecul- 
iarity of manner was very slight, however; it w^as not observed at 
all by the doctor, and it was doubtless produced by the peculiar- 
ly mixed feelings of her present position in regard to the dying 
woman. 

“ It is not easy to say,” rejoined the doctor, thoughtfully. “ This 
malady sometimes disappoints the most careful calculations one way 
or the other. To-morrow she may be attacked with delirium, wfflich 
might give her temporary strength. ” 

“ Then she would speak?” 

“ Certainly; but that state would not heighten the prospect of her 
recovery. ” 

“And— and would she have reason — I mean intelligence, enough 
to recognize any one — to remember anything of the past?” 

“Very possibly,” replied the doctor, eying his questioner curi- 
ously; “but why do you ask ?” 

‘ ‘ Because I wish her to see Mr. Cargill and his daughter Katherine, ” 
returned Sarah, quickly, “and one word from her to him would 
serve me greatly.” 

“I understand.” Dr. Mitchell was a friend of Mr. Hewitt’s, and 
had been made acquainted with the main facts of Sarah’s circum- 


A HARD KNOT. 


117 


stances. “ Well, I can promise you nothing. The probability is as 
strong against you as for you. But do not leave her, for if sense 
does return, it may be no more than a flash, which will vanish im- 
mediately. You must try to profit by it, brief as it may be.” 

“Thank you.” 

“ I have three visits to make,” he added, looking at his watch. “I 
win come back about twelve o’clock.” 

The doctor departed, and Sarah, with troubled brow, took the seat 
he had lately occupied by the bedside. Mechanically her eyes fol- 
lowed the noiseless movements of the nurse, and then reverted to the 
white, clammy face on the bed, from which they quickly started 
again, as if the sight were too much for her to bear. 

She seemed to sit there rather as in stern submission to duty than 
one swayed by the love which lingers over the last moments of the 
loved one, and holds them more precious than gold. By and by 
she began to look anxiously at the watch on the mantelpiece, and, 
as the hours passed, a shade of impatience overspread her coun- 
tenance, and did not leave it until, just after ten o’clock struck, Su- 
san brought her the intelligence that Mr. Hewitt had arrived, and 
was waiting in the parlor. 


CHAPTER XXV. 

A BAD LOOKOUT. 

Mr. Hewitt was sitting in the corner of the parlor farthest from 
the door. One leg was crossed over the other, his arms were folded 
on his breast, and his hat was drawn down over his nose, while he 
leaned back on the chair. 

The attitude was much the same as that of a defiant member of 
Parliament listening to a severe exposure of his own failings. It 
was a singular attitude for one of his placid nature; for he was re- 
'puted to be such a very steady gentleman, and so self-possessed, that 
nothing short of an earthquake could have drawn emotion from him, 
and not even an earthquake would have roused him to any display 
of passion. 

Yet here he was in a decidedly melodramatic attitude, as if pre- 
pared to defy fate itself ; and when Sarah softly entered the room, 
and closed the door after her, he threw up his hat with a jerk, re- 
vealing a face flushed as with chagrin and rage. 

Sarah had seen much more of the inner character of her betrothed 
than any one else— except, perhaps, his mother, and even she had 
been surprised by his conduct of late — even she thought that some- 
thing like an earthquake had happened, or was about to happen im- 


118 


A HARD KNOT. 


mediately, and that its rumbling was already sounding up from the 
depths underground. 

Sarah halted when she had reached the centre of the apartment, 
and gazed upon him inquiringly. 

For an instant he seemed abashed by her gaze, and half ashamed 
of his bearing of mock-heroic despair; then he sprang to his feet. 
One stride brought him to her side. He seized her in his arms, and 
gave her a somewhat rough, spasmodic sort of hug. 

As if he were half ashamed of that, too, he released her instantly, 
and retired a pace, with hands clasped tightly behind him, apparent- 
ly thinking it necessary to hold them fast there, lest he should be 
tempted to repeat the embrace. 

During all this Sarah had only continued to stare at him, trying 
vainly to discover whether she might attribute his strange conduct 
to an unusual indulgence in drink, or to some calamity. 

“Don’t look at me that way,” he said, avoiding her eyes. “ I’m 
half crazed as it is, and you’ll make me whole crazed presently if you 
go on staring.” 

His voice was husky, and scarcely raised above a whisper, but it 
was perfectly distinct; and his manner showed drink was not the 
cause of his condition. 

She laid her hand on his shoulder, and in her slow, firm way, that 
had something of masculine self-possession in it, said : 

“ What is the matter, Laurence? Did I do or say anything wrong 
to-day?” 

“ No, no — not so far as I know,” he responded, changing his posi- 
tion uneasily; “you did everything as it should have been done, 
and said everything as it should have been said, so far as I saw and 
heard. That’s not it.” 

There was bitterness in his tone, and she was still more perplexed. 

“Sit down there, and I will tell you all that I did and said when 
you neither saw nor heard. Sit down.” 

He obeyed awkwardly, and she took a seat by his side. Then she 
narrated all that had occurred at the Royal George, without omitting* 
the slightest detail. 

She spoke with the intention of relieving him and giving him time 
to collect himself. She aehieved her object completely, for the cloud 
cleared from his brow as she proceeded to state how freely and 
promptly her father had decided upon restoring her to her true posi- 
tion. But the cloud gathered again when she told him how, for pro- 
priety’s sake, she had desired a slight delay in the open declaration 
of her birthright, and how her father had acquiesced. 

“That was all as I expected it would be,” he said, with a breath 
of relief when she had finished; “all as I expected, but not the de- 
lay. Still, even that may be managed.” 


A HARD KNOT. 


119 


He added the words reflectively, as one who is seeking a way out 
of a difficulty. 

“It could not have been arranged otherwise without much annoy- 
ance to me, and some doubt being cast upon me. • I do not see what 
there is to be managed.” 

Quiet and most business-like her tone, without the slightest note 
of passion that might betoken love. 

“Umph ! everything has to be managed, and particularly so at 
this stage of our atfairs.” 

‘ ‘ Explain, if you please, as that will doubtless enable me to under- 
stand your singular excitement.” 

“Singular, indeed, you may call it; but you — only you — ^have 
seen it. None other ever could; and even from you it would have 
been hidden, were it not that we are bound together by ties that no 
power on earth can break. No power — save death.” 

It would have astonished the gentleman’s clients and the officers 
of the court if any of them had obtained a glimpse of the livid pas- 
sion on grave, respectable Mr. Hewitt’s visage at that moment.' 
Even Sarah shrank slightly from him ; there was something so ter- 
rible — something so deadly in his expression. 

“I never saw you like this before,” she said, in calm rebuke, re- 
covering from her momentary timidity. 

“No, and never will again, I hope; for I have nerves of iron, Sa- 
rah, and can bind down my tongue and face, although my heart be 
bursting. No, you never shall see me like this again, so don’t trou- 
ble yourself about it; only it is rather hard when one’s finger-tips 
are touching a great, a grand prize, to see the prospect of some con- 
temptible little hitch in one’s arrangements snatching it away for- 
ever, without being permitted to vent one’s heartache in a groan.” 

“Yes, it is hard; but, you see, I do not understand you yet.” 

“No, of course not. I will explain. I have told you that I am iu 
debt. I am deeply in debt, and yet my wide circle of respected pa- 
trons would swear that I am incapable of owing any man a farthing ; 
but I do owe a good many farthings.” 

“Yes, ’’slowly and thoughtfully. 

“ But they must not know it. None must know it but you and I, 
and my debtors. Well, I have made some unlucky speculations on ” 
— on the turf, he was going to say, but altered his mind — “on vari- 
ous promising affairs which have failed. Now, there’s one old fel- 
low — a Christian, but harder than any Jew I ever heard of — who 
lent me a couple of thousands for these speculations. He is not a 
nice character ; he has a good deal to do with betting and that sort 
of thing, and to be known to be connected with him would be utter 
ruin to me, and would do you no good, if it did not do you some 
harm.” 


120 


A HARD KNOT. 


“Well, do not let your difficulty be known.” 

‘ ‘ Y es, but there’s the bother. The infernal fellow wants his money 
— wants it now, and must have it by twelve o’clock to-morrow, or 
else he will expose me.” 

Sarah’s dark lashes drooped over her eyes, and he watched her in- 
tently. 

“Well?” she said at length. 

“Well,” he echoed impatiently, “you see the scrape; can you 
think of no excuse by which you could get Cargill to advance that 
sum at once ?” 

“ None at present ; but by half-past eleven to-morrow I shall have 
found some means of meeting the difficulty.” 

Hewitt, with another stiff, spasmodic movement, hugged her to his 
breast. She disengaged herself gently, and said, in a low but less 
hard voice than before: 

“ There is a probability that Mrs. Burnett will recover conscious- 
ness, and speak, before she dies.” 

Hewitt started, and livid passion flashed in his face again. He 
rose, paced the floor, then sat down, and they talked together for an 
hour. 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

UNDER THE SHADOW. 

At half-past ten on the following morning Mr. Cargill arrived 
with Kate at the house in Hill Street. 

They were about to be conducted to the parlor, but the millionaire 
desired to be taken at once to the invalid’s chamber. They were at 
the door, when it opened suddenly, and Sarah appeared. She closed 
the door behind her, keeping her hand upon it, while she motioned 
the visitors back with an expression of terror on her face. 

The movement of Sarah’s hand, the expression of her face, and the 
quivering of her lips affected Mr. Cargill and Kate as with a shock 
of terror; for to them these signs seemed to declare at once that 
they had arrived too late; and they drew back accordingly, alarmed 
and silent. 

The millionaire, already overwhelmed with the sharp pangs of 
the shame that had come upon him, was at first like one stupefied. 
He was confused by Sarah’s signal, or, rather, by his own interpreta- 
tion of it, and he felt stunned with an undefinable sense of a great 
and unexpected loss. ' . 

Kate only clung the more tightly to her father’s arm, and gazed 
with wearied, anxious eyes at Sarah. 


A HARD KNOT. 121 

“ Is she — is she gone?” asked Mr. Cargill, presently, in a quivering 
voice. 

“No, not yet,” answered Sarah, in a whisper. Her hearing was 
collected, although her eyes were very red. There was no danger of 
any outburst of grief on her part; whatever she felt, she held it 
down. Her grief was not for the common eye to gaze on. 

“Not yet,” echoed Kate, feebly, while her bonny fawn’s eyes 
lighted with a gleam of hope. ‘ ‘ Ah, then, we are not too late. I 
will see her — she will speak to me.” 

She stopped, observing Sarah’s head moving slowly in token of 
sad negative. 

“ Alas ! no, Kate; I am afraid you hope for too much. Try, try, 
my sister, to find strength. I cannot, I dare not hide the truth from 
you ; it would be useless. ” 

“ Speak.” 

“She is still insensible; the doctor has no hope that she will be 
able to speak or recognize anybody before — before she passes away.” 

Sarah turned away her head, as she quietly drew her handkerchief 
across her eyes. 

Kate and her father drew breath; and then the latter, while he 
gently patted the head which sank hopelessly on his shoulder, spoke 
with the air of one who rises calmly above a sea of troubled emo- 
tion, rendered almost insensible to his own pain by the spectacle of 
others’ sorrow. 

“We came, Sarah Cargill, as soon as your messenger reached us. 
I trust you have not, out of any mistaken kindness, delayed sending 
until every chance of Kate obtaining one look from her mother is 
lost?” 

Sarah seemed to be distressed even by the very mild reproach his 
words implied. 

“I have watched all night, sir — watched without ceasing for any 
glimpse of returning consciousness. I kept the messenger ready, so 
that at the first sign I might send for you. But she is now in the 
same state as she was yesterday morning, and as she has continued 
to be ever since. I sent for you this morning because the doctor has, 
for the fourth time, administered a powerful stimulant, in the faint 
hope that it may revive her for even a moment.” 

“ When will the success or failure be known?” 

“By twelve o’clock; it is now half -past eleven — two hours and a 
half since the draught was administered, and only a few minutes 
now will suflice to show the result.” 

“Perhaps I had better see her at once,” said Mr. Cargill, after a 
moment’s reflection. “The sound of my voice may help the doc- 
tor’s drug in its work. If she can hear at all, if she retains the least 
sense, my voice will rouse her.” 


0 


122 


A HARD KNOT. 


Sarah stepped from the door, ■with a look of doubt and dissatis- 
faction. 

“You can try, sir, if you think so; but I would rather that you 
■waited till twelve o’clock— besides, I desire to speak to you immedi- 
ately on a subject of great importance to myself.” 

Mr. Cargill had taken a step towards the door; but, as frequently 
happens with men of stem nature, the calamity which had befallen 
him had left him weak and indecisive, so that when Sarah suggested 
that he should w^ait, he hesitated. Formerly, he would have decided 
yea or nay in an instant, and waived all opposition aside. 

“You want to speak to me,” he said, faltering, and looking ■wist- 
fully at the door; “what is it?” 

“One moment, sir, and I will explain.” 

She went into the sick-room, noiselessly opening and closing the 
door. 

Mr. Cargill turned his eyes sadly to Kate. She had sunk on a 
sofa, and her head was drooping on her breast. She had slept little 
during the night, and it seemed as if the intense suffering her cruel 
position induced would prove too much for her feeble constitution. 
Her husband in jail, with the shadow of the gallows looming darkly 
over him, and her mother on the threshold of death, without one 
word or look for her child — it did indeed seem as if the burden were 
too great for her young shoulders to bear. 

That was the thought which flashed through the man’s mind as he 
looked at her now ; and it added another drop of gall to his already 
bitter cup. 

Sarah returned. 

“ There is no change yet,” she said, hastily answering his inquir- 
ing gaze. “If Katherine will remain here, the doctor will acquaint 
her when Mrs. Burnett makes the least movement.” 

A motion of the head was all the token Kate gave of assent. 

“ Will you come with me, sir, and I shall explain the matter I re- 
ferred to?” 

And Sarah, with a soft sigh and pitying, sympathetic glance 
towards her sister, conducted her father to the parlor. 

He sat down, as ■weak and helpless almost as Kate herself, and with 
a vacant, hopeless look in his pale, sunken eyes, 

“Tell me what it is you wish, Sarah,” he said abstractedly; “but 
be as short as you can, and if anything can wait for a — for a few 
days, spare me the trouble of listening to it now.” 

Sarah silently bowed her head, and her eyelids, with their long 
black lashes, drooped over her eyes. She took a letter from her 
pocket, read it, and then crumpled it in her hand, as if it had annoyed 
her. Then in a low, steady voice : 

“ Yesterday, sir, when you told me that your wealth, your name. 


A HARD' KNOT. 


123 


and all that you had to give were at my disposal, I refused to accept 
anything for the present.” 

“Yes,” he answered mechanically. 

“I must withdraw that refusal — I must ask your help. Believe 
me, sir, it is not on account of myself that I do this, but for an- 
other.” 

“What other?” 

“I will spare you all details at present, sir, as you desired; in- 
deed, it is better that it should be so — better that I should not ex- 
plain why I am compelled to ask you to help me, at least until — un- 
til Mrs. Burnett—” 

He winced, for he divined that the “other” on whose account 
Sarah spoke was the dying woman. In that way he finished the 
broken sentence. 

“ What help do you want?” he said huskily; “tell me that, and 
leave explanations for another time. ” 

She hesitated, and then, with sudden resolution, “ I want you, sir, 
to give me two thousand pounds.” 

He looked up with a ray of the keen business man’s curiosity in 
his eyes. 

“What for?” 

“ I thought you did not care to know why just now. Shall I tell 
you?” 

A timid knock at the door, and the girl Susan appeared. 

“ You’re wanted, miss, if you please.” 

“Coming in a moment.” The girl retired, and Sarah went on: 
“It is a matter which may — ” 

“There, there,” he interrupted, “I don’t wantTo know anything 
about it — perhaps she has recovered consciousness now. Let us go 
to her. When do you want this money?” 

“Now.” 

“I have no check-book with me. I will send it to you this 
evening. ” 

“ I have got a stamp, sir, and you can write an order for it. The 
man to whom it must be paid will be here before three o’clock.” 

He wrote the order hastily, placed it in Sarah’s hand, and hurried 
with her back to Kate. 

As they entered the room the door of the bedroom opened, and the 
doctor beckoned to them. 

“She has moved,” he whispered; “she may recover for an in- 
stant before the end. If you wish to see her alive you had better 
come in now.” 

Sarah’s lips closed tightly as with a spasm; Kate started to her 
feet, and, clutching her father’s arm, was supported by him into the 
sick-room. It was a pitiable first meeting with a mother, insensible. 


124 


A HARD KNOT. 


and past all hope of restoration to the world — a first and last meet- 
ing, in which the grief of a life was concentrated. 

Kate closed her eyes; the first glance at the haggard, corpse-like 
face on the bed made her heart bound as if it were about to burst. 
It seemed to rise to her throat, choking her, and she could not speak, 
or cry, or look. 

Her father held her tightly to keep her from falling, while he, with 
horror-stricken visage, gazed dumbly on the wreck of the woman he 
had once so madly loved. 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

RECOGNITIONS. 

Sarah advanced to the bed, and, taking the attenuated hand of the 
dying woman, looked earnestly into the clammy face. Then she 
turned away with subdued sobs. 

The sound of Sarah’s grief roused Kate. She opened her eyes, 
and there was in them a wild, dazed expression. Then, with a sharp 
cry of pain, she sprang to the bed and threw her arms round the 
body, no pulse of which throbbed at her touch or voice. 

“Mother — mother! it is I, your child — your own child! Speak 
to me one word — give me one look before you leave me!” 

But there was not the faintest movement, and the daughter’s head 
sank on the mother’s breast, with bitter tears and sobs. 

Slowly, and with the bearing of one in a dream, Mr. Cargill ap- 
proached the bed, and the nurse moved away to make room for him 
by the invalid’s head. Gently he took the moist hand between his 
own— still in a dreamy, half -unconscious manner. But as soon as he 
had pressed it earnestly something seemed to quicken him to a rec- 
ognition of the position in which he stood, and, bending down, he 
spoke fondly in the woman’s ear: 

“Sarah — Sarah! can you not hear me? Has my voice no power 
to pierce this cruel insensibility? Sarah, it is I, Robert Cargill, who 
speak to you.” 

There was no immediate sign that she heard or understood any- 
thing; and the stillness of the chamber of death was broken only by 
Kate’s sobs. 

“Sarah,” he said again, and his voice trembled this time, “can 
you not hear me yet ? Sarah, give me some sign that you know 
me !” 

Another brief space of breathless waiting for the sign, and it came. 
As if the voice had travelled a long way to reach her, several minutes 
had elapsed when the hand he was holding trembled, and then the 


A HARD KNOT. 


125 


fingers closed on his with spasmodic force, and as if she feared to 
lose it. The muscles of the face quivered, and she drew breath 
quick and gaspingly. 

At last the eyes — dull, dazed eyes with no light of intellect in them 
— were slowly opened. But they rested neither upon the yearning 
face of Kate, nor the worn, despairing countenance of the million- 
aire. Quite vacantly they stared straight up at the canopy of the 
bed, and what thought the sound of his voice had recalled had wan- 
dered away to the old time, years and years ago. 

“She may recover yet,” said Sarah, clutching the doctor’s arm 
eagerly. 

He shook his head gloomily. He could give no encouragement 
to such hope as that. 

“She may speak; she may even recognize you and her friends 
yet; but it is only the last flash of the light before it sinks al- 
together.” 

Her lips were moving even now, as if she were trying to speak ; 
and there was a hoarse, suffocating sound in her throat at every 
breath, as if something there stopped the passage of air, and inti- 
mated how near was the end. 

The doctor moistened her lips with some liquid, and it seemed to 
soothe her. The lips moved more freely after that, and Mr. Cargill 
bent his ear close to them and listened eagerly to discover what tin y 
were trying to say. At last he thought the words were : 

“Where is she — she — my child?” 

“ She is here.” 

His voice seemed to have more effect upon her this time than be- 
fore, and her brows became feebly knit as if she were trying vainly 
to recollect something. But the shade passed in an instant, leaving 
the visage clammy and blank again, with the big, vacant eyes staring 
upward. She repeated her question, however, and now it was loud 
enough for the others to hear. 

“Here is your daughter,” said Mr. Cargill, huskily, and placing 
Kate’s hand in her mother’s. 

Mrs. Burnett feebly drew her hand away, and the lips moved as 
with repugnance. 

“ No, no! my own child — my baby,” she said, in a feverish whis- 
per, which became stronger as she proceeded; “my baby that he 
wanted to take from me. Where is she? He did not get her — I 
would have it — I would not give him my child. Oh, he was cruel, 
cruel,, and I loved him so !— but he did not get my child— no, 
no.” 

“Alas ! she is still delirious,” sobbed Sarah. 

“Was he not cruel in his love?” Mrs. Burnett went on, with her 
sad, glazed eyes peering into the dark past. “He said I deceived 


126 


A HARD KNOT. 


him — I, who loved him more than my own happiness — I, who sacri- 
ficed everything that a woman cares about, for his sake! Cruel, 
cruel!” 

If she could only have seen how the old man’s head was bowed in 
shame and remorse— if she could only have guessed how every w^ord 
stung him to the quick as he stood there listening and humbled ! 

“He called me false,” she moaned, “false; and he pointed to my 
own brother as the man for whom I had deceived him.” 

“Your brother!” he cried, struck with a new pain. 

As if she had heard and comprehended that he was near, she slow- 
ly made answer: 

“ Ay, my own brother, who had come back from India with wealth 
to offer me a home, and w’ho, discovering what I had become, 
spurned me from him. And Robert, too, he would not listen, he 
would not accept any explanation. He called me false, and he, too, 
spurned me. My God, my God! I was punished for loving that 
man !” 

Her voice faded away as the millionaire shrank back in horror at 
the denunciation of his own iniquity, at the revelation of the double 
wrong he had done her. 

Her breathing became more rapid and difficult, and as life ebbed 
from her the memory of years of suffering ffashed through her mind, 
bringing a momentary ffush to the white cheeks, making them look 
so like life that it was hard to believe death was so near. 

‘ ‘ I have waited, Robert, waited a long while — years, it seems to 
me, I have waited for your coming. Will you never come again?” 

“Ay, Sarah, I am with you now,” faltered the man, giving her his 
hand. 

“At last,” she said, but without moving her body or looking at 
him ; and although she addressed him, it seemed rather as if she saw 
him at a great distance from her than as if she were conscious that 
he was standing by her side; “at last you have come, after all this 
waiting; but you are not going to take my child from me? No, 
you will not do that; for I cannot take another’s to my arms and 
fondle it, and be kind to it, while I have been robbed of my own — 
not even when you wish to do it that our child may obtain a high 
position in the world. What do I care for position! My child is 
all the world to me.” 

“ She is here beside you now. Can you not see her?” 

“Alas, alas!” cried the unhappy woman, as if stricken with pain; 
“you will not listen to me — you will not listen. Ah, Robert, re- 
member our child will become a woman by and by. Who knows 
but she may demand from me an account of the past; and what 
would I say— what would you say? And Jean Gorbal! ah, those 
letters, those letters!” 


A HARD KNOT. 


127 


Her voice became suddenly sharp, and even shrill, while some in- 
spiration of alarm gave her unexpected strength, and with an af- 
frighted look on her haggard visage she partly raised herself on her 
elbow. Mr. Cargill hastened to support her. 

“Will he get them from her?” she cried; and here Mr. Cargill 
had an instinctive feeling that the pronoun did not refer to him; 
“will he force them from her? I told them the truth; they turned 
on me and would not believe ; they pretended that I was trying to 
deceive them again for my child’s sake. Yes, my own child turned 
upon me, scorned me, and cursed me — ay, cursed. Ah, hush! do 
not let anybody know about that — my child cursed me. Oh, Robert, 
forgive — forgive me — I had not the courage to resist your command, 
nor the strength to obey it, and — and — ” 

As she faltered confusedly over the last word, the door opened 
quietly, while the clock was striking twelve, and Mr. Hewitt ap- 
peared. 

Mrs. Burnett’s eyes rested on him, and for the first time intelli- 
gence shone in them. A cold shiver affected her whole body. The 
past had sunk from her, and she was conscious of the present. 
Raising herself with a strength that amazed all who saw, she ex- 
tended a shuddering arm towards the lawyer, and with a gasp as if 
her lungs cracked in the effort, she moaned : 

“Assassin!” 

That was all. Her whole strength had been concentrated in the 
effort she had made, and instantly she sank back. 

There was a brief interval of silent amaze at the strange salutation 
Mr. Hewitt had received. That gentleman himself had only raised 
his eyebrows and looked at Sarah; then he gravely advanced and 
drew her apart, as if to proffer his sympathy in that moment of trial. 

Mr. Cargill turned slowly to Mrs. Burnett, and he looked on a 
corpse. 

He sat down on the chair which had been placed for him previous- 
ly — sat down, holding the dead woman’s hand, his eyes fixed upon 
her, and he became almost as cold and rigid as the one on whom the 
shadow had fallen. 

The majesty of death hushed all tongues, and Mr. Hewitt’s pres- 
ence even was forgotten. 

The nurse was the first to move, and she gently drew Kate away 
from the bed, and into the other room. The doctor, as if reminded 
of his duty, hastened to attend to Mr. Cargill, and in some alarm dis- 
covered that he was in a swoon. 

“Fetch some water !” cried the doctor, while with rapid fingers he 
unfastened the cravat and shirt-collar, and tore open the vest of his 
new patient. 

The doctor, with Mr. Hewitt’s assistance, carried the unconscious 


128 


A HARD KNOT. 


millionaire out of the room. Then, by the prompt administration 
of the proper restoratives, Mr. Cargill’s senses were restored. 

As soon as the doctor had brought him to that state, he turned his 
attention to Kate, who was at present folded in Sarah’s arms, silent 
and tearless, while Sarah tried, in the midst of her own grief, to 
whisper words of comfort and hope. On this occasion, as much as 
any other, Sarah displayed that quiet firmness of character for which 
she was remarkable, and which rendered her invaluable as a nurse. 
Happen what might, Sarah never lost her presence of mind. 

When Mr. Cargill opened his eyes they met those of Mr. Hewitt, 
who was bending over him. 

“Are you better, sir?” asked the lawyer. 

“Better,” he repeated, looking about him as if unable to under- 
stand the circumstances of his present position; and then, with dark- 
ening face, he remembered all. “Yes, thank you,” he said feebly, 
“ I am better. Did you come here to see me, Mr. Hewitt?” 

“No, sir; I was transacting some business for Mrs. Burnett — im- 
portant business, which compelled me to intrude upon Miss Sarah, 
even at such a time as this.” 

Sarah herself advanced and whispered in her father’s ear: 

“He came for the money, sir.” 

“I understand— you will explain about that by and by, Sarah, 
Have you any fresh tidings for us in regard to your client — my 
nephew?” 

“lam sorry to say no, sir.” 

“ Ah, well! ah, well! do what you can; spare no labor that money 
can pay to save him.” 

“Depend upon it, sir, I will do all that can be done.” 

“Thank you.” 

Mr. Cargill rose, assisted by Mr. Hewitt and Sarah. Releasing 
himself from them, as if ashamed of his own weakness, he turned ta 
her. 

“You will see to everything that is needed here, Sarah, and to* 
morrow I will come to you again, or I will send for you to come to 
Mavisbank. Kate.” 

He tottered to her side and offered his arm. It was evident what 
a mighty effort of the man’s will was required to sustain him on his 
feet, with all the assistance of his staff. 

A slight bend of his head to the doctor, and, leading Kate, he passed 
out. Mr. Hewitt hurried on before to open the door for them, and 
to assist them into the carriage. 

“Mr. Lyon’s, Woodlands Road,” Mr. Cargill said to the footman; 
and the latter repeated the direction to the coachman as the carriage 
drove off. 

“Lyon’s!” muttered Hewitt, raising his eyebrows, as he stood fin- 


A HARD KNOT. 


129 


gering his watchguard, and observing the receding carriage. “Per- 
haps he has discovered some evidence that may he of service? No; 
it is merely the order to see the prisoner they want.” 

And with a reflective manner he re-entered the house. 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

THE CHASE. 

Baffled at every hand apparently, all help refused him by Mr. 
Lyon, and even his devoted admirer, Inspeetor Speirs, disposed to 
sneer at the sudden change of his tacties, John Hadden was as near 
the zero of despair as it was possible for one of his sanguine tem- 
perament to be. 

Thereupon he partook of a sumptuous repast in the nearest hotel, 
which happened, to be in Buchanan Street. Willie Thorne, some- 
what awkward in his new garments, and not quite reconciled to a 
clean face and kempt hair, was seated at tlie table opposite his chief, 
and in silent delight devoured the good things, which were placed 
before him. He was even content to wash his face once a day for 
such fare as this. 

As for Hadden, he ate placidly, and with the enjoyment of a phi- 
losopher, although a somewhat nervous one. And as he ate he felt 
his courage revive, 

“Ah, Willie!” he exclaimed, “folks haven’t quite understood yet 
how much a satisfied stomach has to do with heroism.” 

Willie nodded, although he did not see the least connection be- 
tween the dinner and the remark. However, he thought it was safe 
to nod and look knowing, which permitted him to proceed with the 
dinner without offence to his master. 

Hadden had been out with his protege late the previous night, and 
he had been out with him again since an early hour that morning, 
hunting for the driver of the cab, without success. But now he was 
already planning the next route they should take. 

He would not be beaten. Obstacles should only quicken him to 
renewed exertion. He had placed the life of an innocent man in 
jeopardy, and he would save him yet. He had six days left still, 
and what might not be accomplished in six days by a man of 
energy? 

He summed up the whole position. In what respect had he 
failed? Were the deductions from his observations in the house at 
Port-Dundas wrong? No. Was his theory false? No. Where 
had he failed, then? 

“Tavendale is surrounded by the most unlucky circumstances,’* 

6 * 


180 


A HARD KNOT. 


he muttered, clasping his hands round his knee and rocking his body 
to and fro ; ‘ ‘ but he is not the man. Let me see, now, who are the 
parties interested in Jean Gorbal’s death. First, Mrs. Burnett, to 
hide her shame from Sarah and the world, and to insure her daugh- 
ter in the position she had no business to occupy. Well, Mrs. Bur- 
nett didn’t do it. Who next? Cargill himself, to save himself 
from the risk of sueh an exposure as has just taken place. But he 
did not do the work; true, he might have hired some one; and sup- 
posing he could have found an elegant young man with an umbrella, 
and who smoked Havana cigars with an amber mouthpiece, pos- 
sessing all the rare qualities of coolness, cunning, and foresight, 
which this criminal certainly possesses — supposing he could have 
found such a man for his purpose, would he not have relieved him- 
self of one accomplice to place himself in the power of a more dan- 
gerous one?” 

Hadden paused an instant to review that proposition, and then — 

“Bah! Cargill is a man of the world, and would never be guilty 
of such folly. Then comes Tavendale, the husband of Katherine — 
ah, that’s the worst of it ! he learns that she is not the great heiress 
he bargained for ; that she is about to be exposed to the world as an 
impostor, a usurper — to be dragged down from the high position of 
a millionaire’s heiress to that of — well, to say the least, the daugh- 
ter of an unfortunate woman. Umph! yes, I can’t shut my eyes to 
it; he had certainly strong motives for the crime.” 

Hadden here changed his hands from one knee to the other, and 
proceeded, while Willie Thorne, satiated and half-stupefied with 
over-eating, sat staring at his master, and occasionally at the table, 
with a disposition to pocket the remains of the ample dinner. 

“Try back. Jean Gorbal, who was so ready to serve Cargill, 
would be just as ready to lend her services to an3^body else for any- 
thing else by which she could make a few pounds without much la- 
bor. Well, then, why should it not have been on account of some 
other affair altogether that she was — removed? As likely as not; 
and, if Heaven pleases, I shall be glad if Mactier comes back and 
blows to the wind my fine explanation of the cause of the crime. 
Yes, I will submit to be laughed at, will submit to be mocked at as 
an old fool, and I will say my presumption has been lightly punished 
if they turn me out of the force, if at the same time they will only 
rescue Alick Tavendale from the hangman’s grip.” 

He suddenly dropped his foot to the ground, and, drawing out his 
big pocket-handkerchief, blew his nose with such a sonorous ring 
that Willie started from the doze into which he had been falling, 
and uttered an astonished “Eh?” 

“Those papers,” muttered Hadden, not heeding his protege; “ if it 
had been another affair, why should those papers have been burned? 


A nARD KNOT. 


131 


A person interested in another affair would have no desire to burn 
them. It won’t do; there’s nothing for it but to get to the bottom; 
there’s something in it I don’t and can’t see. But I will see it be- 
fore I’ve done.” 

He jumped to his feet, summoned the waiter, and settled the 
bill. 

“ Come, lad!” 

Willie reluctantly got out of the easy-chair in which he had settled 
himself, and followed his patron. They revisited several of the 
cab-stands which they had inspected on the previous night. They 
made a tour through innumerable public-houses, and particularly all 
those in the neighborhood of the cab-stands. Still without success. 

At length, as they approached the rank which had been the last 
they had visited the night before, when they had found more than 
half the cabs knocked oil for the night, or out with fares, Willie 
seized his master’s arm. 

“That’s him!” he said briefly. 

He pointed to a cabman in a jerry hat, who was just crossing from 
the rank to the Tron Arms tavern, at the door of which were grouped 
a number of “ cabbies,” discussing the latest sporting news, badness 
of fares, and the general ill-treatment their class received at the hands 
of the public, which, with their misrepresentation by the press, was 
a growing and unendurable evil. 

Hadden darted forward, and, just as the man Willie had pointed 
out had pushed open the door of the bar, and was about to enter, he 
tapped him on the shoulder. 

“Hallo!” cried the cabman, looking round, and then mistaking 
his accoster’s object; “I’ll be with you in a minute, sir; just come 
olf a long journey, and I am cursed thirsty.” 

He was about to dive into the bar after that explanation, when 
Hadden stayed him by taking a firm grip of his arm. 

“What’s the matter?” growled the man, inclined to become ill- 
humored by this interference with the acts of a free-drinking Briton. 

“Well, if you are so very thirsty as to lose your temper over it,” 
said Hadden, good-humoredly, “come on, and I’ll stand treat.” 

“Will you though, old boy?” cried the man, his vexation vanish- 
ing. “ Come on, then ; you’re the right sort!” 

They entered; a proper supply of whiskey was obtained and paid 
for by Hadden. The cabman drank to his liberal customer’s health, 
and then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and with the 
air of one refreshed. 

“Where is’t you want to go to, sir?” he said, after exchanging a 
few words of banter with a smart barmaid. 

“ You’ll have to tell me that.” 

“Me? maybe you’ll tell us how that happens ?” 


133 


A HAED KNOT. 


“You took up a friend of mine near the Royal George yesterday 
afternoon, about five o’clock.” 

“Did I?” — and the man appeared to reflect by setting his head 
to one side, and observing his companion from the corners of his 
eyes. 

“Yes; I’ve lost the address he gave me, and I want you to drive 
me to the place you set him down at.” 

“Eh, do ye?” 

“Just so, and there’s a half-sov. when you land me." 

“Ow, a half-sov.,” repeated the man slowly, and now eying the 
coin; “ what might he be like?” 

Hadden quietly returned the coin to his pocket, and very delicate- 
ly passed his finger over his nose. 

“You’re a smart chap — what’s your name?” 

“Joe Torry, and I’m no ashamed o’ it.” 

“Glad to hear it. Now, then, you remember passing the Royal 
George yesterday?” 

“ Surely,” was the answer, with a degree of shyness, for the man 
guessed that there was more in this than a stranger trying to find a 
lost address. 

“And you took up a gentleman about fifty yards on this side of 
the George ?” 

“I did.” 

“What was he like?” 

“ Tallish chap rather, wi’ an umbrella.” 

“That’s the man. Come on, lad; take us to the place, and I'll 
make it a whole sov.” 

Joe Torry was not proof against such a temptation as that, so 
he hastily finished his whiskey and hurried off to his horse. The 
nosebag was removed in an instant. Joe mounted to his seat, 
and drove over to the curb where Hadden and Willie were waiting 
for him. 

They took their places, Joe cracked his whip, and away they went 
at full speed, the detective’s pulse throbbing with impatience. He 
had' picked up the clew again, and it should go hard but he would 
follow it to the issue without pause or new blunder. On rolled the 
cab, and Hadden’s spirits rose at every pace the horse made, for it 
was bringing him nearer, nearer to the guilty one — nearer, nearer to 
the rescue of the innocent. There could be no missing of the way 
this time; the course was clear, and he was driving straight to his 
object. 

The cab stopped in front of a quiet-looking house, the blinds and 
all the windows of which were carefully drawn, as if somebody lay 
dead or dying within. ':.f- 

Joe had sprung from his box as Hadden stepped out. 


A HARD KNOT. 


133 


“ This is tlie house, sir, the gent went into.” 

ITadden looked up: it was Hill Street, and the house the man 
pointed to was Mrs, Burnett’s. 

He stared at the house, then he stared at the man, and stared at 
tlie house again, 

“You’ve made a mistake, my man,” he began feebly, conscious 
that his head was beginning to reel with the bewilderment and corw- 
fusion of his thoughts; “that can’t be the house.” 

Joe looked at him with a scowl, for he suspected at once that this 
was a ruse to save the promised reward. 

“Maybe it canna,” he responded surlily; “but this is where the 
chap stopped me, and that’s the door he went in at. I saw him go 
in as I was driving off, and I saw the lass that let him in; and when 
a chap says a thing, he ought to stick to it.” 

Hadden did not take the hint conveyed in these last words. He 
had produced his handkerchief and was busy wiping the cold per- 
spiration from his face, staring hard at the house door. 

“Willie,” he said, turning to his pi'otege, who had not got out of 
the cab yet, and showed no desire to do sq, “you can stay where 
you are. Joe Torry, you’ll wait.” ' 

“ Surely, if you say it.” 

Hadden advanced to the door and knocked. The girl Susan, 
after the lapse of a few minutes, appeared, with very red eyes, as if 
she had been crying a good deal. 

“Eh, what’s the matter, my lass?” he queried. 

“Oh, Mr. Hadden, the mistress— the mistress is gone!” 

“ Gone!” echoed Hadden, his hair seeming to rise on end with the 
alarming reflection that he was to encounter some new and disagree- 
able surprise at every step. 

“When did it happen?” 

“ This forenoon, sir. Will you come in, sir?” 

“No, thank you, I won’t go in just now; you can say I was here, 
and that I’ll come round in the morning. By the way, was there a 
gentleman here yesterday evening?” 

“Yes, sir, the doctor.” 

“Anybody else?” 

“ No, sir — oh, yes, Mr. Hewitt was here.” 

“About what time?” 

“A little after five, sir; he came first, and then, as Sarah wasn’t 
at home, he went away, and came back later in the evening. ” 

“ Did he come in a cab?” 

“ The first time? Yes, a hansom, same as that there.” 

“Thank you. Say that I’ll bo here to-morrow.” 

And Hadden slowly re-entered the cab, but his hands were work- 
ing feverishly with his staff. 


134 


A HARD KNOT. 


“You haven’t said where to, sir,” said Joe, breaking in upon his 
bewildered reflections. 

“George Street,” he answered, with a start; “George Street: I 
don’t know the number, but I’ll stop you when you come to the 
place.” 

“All right.” 

“ “All wrong,” muttered Hadden, as the cab moved away; “but 
we may as well run to the end of the tack. It’s another miss, but 
at any rate I can have a talk with him over the affair.” 

With that reflection he leaned back and tried to compose himself 
till he reached the end of the journey. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

JOHN HADDEN IN A MAZE. 

As the hansom whirled along the streets, Hadden experienced a 
sensation of giddiness jn the head and uneasiness in the stomach, 
which made him wish sincerely enough that he had never risked his 
peace of mind in becoming a detective. What were all the petty 
triumphs he could make, compared with the misery of the thought 
that he brought an innocent man to the scaffold? 

At present his position was a most unhappy one. First, he was 
convinced of Alick Tavendale’s innocence, yet he had supplied the 
chief proof which was to condemn him. Again, he had tracked a 
man upon whom he had fixed suspicion, and lo! this man proved to 
be Tavendale’s agent, and the betrothed husband of the girl who 
was precious in Hadden’s eyes as a daughter — Sarah. Certainly, 
Mr. Hewitt could have nothing to do with this wretched affair. 

He signalled to the driver when they were opposite the lawyer’s 
office, and as soon as the cab had drawn up to the pavement he 
jumped out. 

He bade the cabman wait, and he took Willie with him up-stairs 
to the oflice. Hewitt’s very sharp boy with the very short legs was, 
as usual, perched on the stool with the long legs, and dismounted 
with a spring when Hadden entered. 

“Mr. Hewitt’s engaged, sir — par-tic-u-lar.” 

“Very well; I’ll wait.” 

And he waited accordingly for half an hour, fidgeting about the 
place in a restless fashion, to the great amusement of the sharp 
boy. 

Willie planted his back against the wall, and, with his hands be- 
hind him, stood there alternately on each foot. His quick eyes fol- 
lowed the movements of his patron curiously, and occasionally 


A HARD KNOT. 


135 


glanced at the office-boy, as if wondering what he could find to do 
on the top of the high stool. 

“ Look here, my man; you’d better tell Mr. Hewitt that I’m wait- 
ing,” said Hadden, at length. 

“Yes, sir.” 

But at that moment the voices, which hitherto had been heard 
only in a dull drone, out of which no words could be distinguished, 
rose to a louder key. 

“ You must do as I say, or go to the devil!” exclaimed Mr. Hewitt’s 
voice, angrily, and both the anger and the words disturbed Hadden ; 
for it was not customary with Mr. Hewitt to display anger with any 
one, least of all to a client, and the advice which he had just given 
was scarcely of a purely legal charaeter. 

“You know it is not me that presses you,” answered a sharp 
voice, with a slightly nasal twang. “I wouldn’t do it myself, nohow. 
But the old chap says he has waited a good while now; two thou- 
sand’s only half, and he wants to know where’s his security for the 
other half ?” 

“I’m going to be married, and he shall have it the day after — 
curse him!” 

“Amen! I’ll see how he takes it.” 

The door of the inner room opened, and a slim, short man came 
out. He was stylishly dressed, with white hat, blue coat, velveteen 
vest, and trousers fitting tight about the knees; in his blue-spotted 
scarf was a large pin, the head of which represented a horse at full 
gallop, and gave the key-note to his character — his style was of the 
turf, and manner and dress were distinctly “horsey.” 

He was the hostler of the Boyal George. 

Hadden’s eyes opened, and he nodded to the man, whom he had 
known as mixed up in various turf speculations of anything but a 
satisfactory nature. The fellow was indeed pretty well known to 
the force as Nicol Ogg, alias Dandy Nick, wffio, although he had 
never been entrapped in any unfair dealing, was suspected to have 
a close intimacy with those who considered everything fair on the 
turf. 

Ogg nodded familiarly and passed on ; but Hewitt, who came out 
immediately after him, looked for an instant confused on observing 
Hadden. Then, quickly recovering, he said, in a tone of friendly 
warning: 

“You must arrange your affairs' as I have explained, or else I can 
do nothing for you, and it will be useless coming to me.” 

“All right,” said Nicol Ogg; and in a knowing way he winked 
and nodded. 

Although Hadden’s back was turned and he could not observe 
this little by-play, Willie did. 


136 


A haud knot. 


When the door closed upon Ogg, Mr. Hewitt turned to Hadden 
and shook him by the hand, apologizing at the same time. 

‘ ‘ That is one of my most troublesome customers, ’’ he said, lead- 
ing the way to his private room. “ I need not mind telling you that 
his transactions are none of the cleanest. He makes a great deal or 
money, and he has been good enough to select me as his agent. I 
consented, after some hesitation and consideration, and the result 
has been that I have no end of bother with him.” 

“Yes, he’s a queer chap.” 

“ So queer that I fairly lost my temper with him just now; and I 
have told him that unless he places his business on a better footing 
I will have nothing to do with him or his affairs in the future. ” 

“Quite right.” 

“ Have you been waiting long?” 

“No; only a few minutes.” 

“The boy ought to have told me you were here. You would 
have relieved me of my client sooner,” and Mr. Hewitt laughed 
dryly. “But now that he is gone and you are here, is there any- 
thing I can do for you? Do you come upon poor Mrs. Burnett’s 
business ?” 

“No, no; not exactly. You see this lad here — well, I’ve taken 
an interest in him, and I’ve got a fancy to put him in a lawyer’s 
office. I thought you could help me in that. Come here, Willie, 
and let Mr. Hewitt have a look at you.” 

Willie had halted near the door, and beside a small hat-stand, in 
which were a Malacca cane, silver-mounted, a plain blackthorn, and 
a slim silk umbrella. This latter object he was quietly examining 
when he was told to advance to the solicitor. He obeyed instantly. 

“A sharp - looking lad,” said Mr. Hewitt, patronizingly, “and I 
dare say he’ll make his way. So you would like to be a lawyer, 
my lad?” 

“I dinna ken,” said Willie, honestly, thinldng probably of the 
execrations he had always heard vented on lawyers among his ac- 
quaintances. 

“He’ll have to go to school for a few months first,” interposed 
Hadden, hastily; “only I should like your advice on the subject, 
whether you think it would be worth while setting a lad like him 
to learn lawyers’ business.” 

“Why not? The work is hard, of course; but to a lad who is 
steady and persevering there’s as- good an opening for him in our 
profession as in any other. In fact, it is not the business or pro- 
fession a man chooses that enables him to get on; it is his own 
industry and adaptability to the course he has chosen;” and Mr. 
Hewitt looked as if he would say, “Regard me, and see what in- 
dustry can do.” 


A nAIlD KNOT. 


137 


“Thanks, Mr. Hewitt; I agree with you, and I suppose I may 
count on your helping me to get him a place when he’s ready.” 

“I shall be happy to do anything for you, Mr. Hadden.” 

“Thank you again; that’s just what I expected from your good- 
nature.” 

“ Oh, it is nothing— nothing. Very happy, I’m sure, to be of ser- 
vice to you.” 

“That’s kind. I was wondering if I could get him into your old 
office, Martin & Holroyd’s. By the way, were you at Mr. Hol- 
royd’s on Monday evening last week?” 

“Monday evening last week,” repeated Mr. Hewitt, reflectively; 
“Monday evening — oh, dear, no; I recollect now, I was at the thea- 
tre with two friends of mine — Mackie and Duncan Milne.” 

“ Of Cargill & Company’s?” 

“ The same.” 

“Ah, I think I have seen them; I only asked if you were at Hol- 
royd’s because a friend of mine was there, and I wanted to know if 
you had met him. However, about the lad ; if you think you could 
get him into Martin & Holroyd’s office — ” 

“ I think I can almost promise you a place for him there.” 

“ I shall be under a great obligation. 1 won’t take up your vaM- 
able time any longer. Good - afternoon, and thank you again. 
Come, Willie.” 

Mr. Hewitt made a pretence of regretting that he was hurrying 
away so soon, but in the same breath declared that he was so 
busy he did not know how he should acquit himself of his multi- 
farious engagements. Hadden was pleased to learn that he was 
so busy, and would not on any account waste another moment 
of his time. So while talking he stretched out his hand to lift 
his blackthorn staff from the stand, but accidentally took the um- 
brella instead. He did not appear to observe his mistake, and 
Mr. Hewitt certainly did not observe it, or he would have referred 
to it. 

Before they had reached the foot of the staircase Hadden gripped 
his pi'otege by the arm. 

“Now, Willie, lad, think well before you speak — was that the 
man you saw going into Higgin’s Close?” 

“ That was the chap, I’m certain sure, though he hadna got the 
same clothes on ; and that was the umbrella he hit me wi’ that you’ve 
got in your han’.” 

Hadden looked at the umbrella, and expressed no surprise at the 
mistake he had made; but a sharp twinge of alarm passed over his 
face as he looked at the ferrule. It was a patent ferrule, exactly 
the same as that of the umbrella he had found in Tavendale’s lodg- 
ings. 


138 


A HARD KNOT. 


He advanced quickly to Joe Tony, who, observing him approach, 
began to unfasten the nosebag from his horse’s head. 

“ Did you see a little man with a white hat and a blue coat come 
out ten minutes ago?” 

“Do you mean Dandy Nick? Ay, I saw him and spoke to him. 
He’s just gone round the corner yonder.” 

“After him, quick! I must speak to him.” 

Hadden and Willie jumped into the cab; Joe mounted to his 
perch and drove off in pursuit of the sporting gentleman. The lat- 
ter had turned into Queen Street, and they overtook him at the cor- 
ner of Ingram Street. 

He was not a little surprised, and even startled, when the cab 
pulled up short beside him. Joe hailed him, and Hadden sprang 
out, seizing him by the arm. 

“ What’s up?” he asked, as if he were half inclined to run for it. 

“Nothing — nothing particular, that is — only I w^ant to speak to 
you,” panted Hadden; and then, putting his arm through Nicol’s, 
he directed the cabman to follow slowly, and walked on with his 
companion, who did not seem to be delighted by this condescension, 
for his mind was busy searching for any event which might have 
brought him within the reach of the law. 

“I won’t keep you many minutes, Ogg,” said Hadden, confiden- 
tially; “I only want to know how much he’s owing you, and what 
it’s for.” 

“ Who’s he?” queried Ogg, slyly. 

“ Hewitt, of course.” 

“ Oh, him— he’s not — ” 

“ Stop! he’s paid you two thousand; how much more is it?. You 
see I know something of the affair; and now I’ll tell you why I 
want to know the rest. He is likely to need help. I’m going to 
help him, but first I must understand the whole business. Go on; 
how much more is it?” 

Ogg hesitated, furtively eyed his companion, and then, as if de- 
termined to relieve himself of all suspicion, spoke: 

‘ ‘ It’s two thousand more. ” 

“ That’s four thousand altogether — a good round sum. How did 
he get so deep in your books?” 

“ It’s not my book at all” 

“ Stop ! I know one or two things about you, Ogg; shall I tell 
you what they are? Here goes. First, you play at hostler at the 
Royal George. In that position you are able to lay your hands eas- 
ily on any greenhorn who may have a few hundreds to enter on a 
good tip for the next race. You provide the good tip, and pocket 
the few hundreds on the sly; making believe all the while that you 
never touch a farthing of it, and shoving your old father forward 


A HARD KNOT. 


139 


as the scapegoat. In his name you win money and lend money, and 
screw money out of the unlucky wretches who drop into your spi- 
der’s web. Now you see that there’s no use keeping up the sham 
with me, for I know all about it. How did it happen?” 

‘ ‘ Easy enough, ” returned Ogg, sullenly, ‘ ‘ and fairly enough. He’s 
been playing the fine gent for the past year ; he dropped a lump on 
the last Derby and the last Goodwood — not through me. If he’d 
minded what I said to him he wouldn’t have lost a rap ; but he 
wouldn’t mind me, and he lost. He had to pay, and he borrowed 
from — my friend.” 

“Just so. Goon!” 

“Well, he’s been keeping things afloat with bills, but he hasn’t 
been clearing any of them off ; and as I heard he was getting deep- 
er in the books of everybody he could borrow from, I advised my 
friend to look sharp after hisself. He’s been doing that, and so he’s 
managed to get the draft for two thousand.” 

“A draft— are you sure it’s genuine?” 

Ogg was startled by the suggestion, and clapped his hands on his 
breast as if he had been struck. A pocket inside his velveteen vest 
contained various valuable scraps of paper. 

“He wouldn’t try anything of that sort,” growled Ogg, with 
blanched face and blue lips. 

“I don’t suppose he would; but you had better let me have a 
look at the paper.” 

“ Come in here, then.” 

All thought of hiding Hewitt’s secret from Hadden had vanished 
from Ogg’s mind when he heard that so much was already known 
to him; but if it had not it would have disappeared now, at the 
suggestion of a trick in the payment of his money. 

They entered a tavern, obtained a private room, and Ogg imme- 
diately produced from his secret pocket the order. Hadden exam- 
ined it, and groaned inwardly when he saw it was signed by Mr. 
Cargill, and genuine— for the letters Sarah had shown him had made 
him acquainted with the millionaire’s writing. There was only 
one channel through which Hewitt could have obtained this; and 
Hadden felt his head reel again with the confused doubts and sus- 
picions suggested to him by the various discoveries he had made 
that day. 

“ Is it all right?” asked Ogg, anxiously. 

“ All right.” 

Ogg snatched it back, and replaced it in his pocket. 

“ That’s satisfactory, anyhow,” he said, with a breath of relief, 
“ and I expect there’ll be more in the nest this egg came from. He 
says he’s going to be married, and he’ll square up the day after. 
Is that true?” 


140 


A HAKD KNOT. 


“ I dare say it is, but I wouldn’t say anything about it, if I were 
you. Keep it to yourself, and make as much as you can out of 
it.” 

“I take you; let the others look out for themselves.” 

“Do you think he owes much besides what he is still indebted to 
you?” 

“ Can’t say, and don’t care. Should think he’s in a pretty des- 
perate pass, or he wouldn’t be so eager to make me keep my mouth 
shut — that is, I mean, to make me make my friend keep his 
mouth — ” 

‘ ‘ I know — I know about that. Did he ask you to keep these 
transactions quiet?” 

“Ra-ther; he said it would ruin him if they were known, and 
that wouldn’t suit me, nohow.” 

“ I understand, and I too would advise you to keep quiet about 
it. Don’t tell him that you have spoken to me even — at least, until 
I see you again, and that will be in a day or two.” 

“A bargain’s a bargain, and you’ll keep mum about me — eh?” 

“If I can — yes.” 

They parted good friends. Hadden had re-entered the cab, and 
drove next to the office of Messrs. Cargill & Co., in St. Vincent 
Street. The clerks had all gone, and the porter was locking up the 
place. 

From the porter Hadden, with the help of half a crown, obtained 
the addresses of Mackie and Milne. To the lodgings of the latter, 
in Portland Street, he proceeded first. 

Milne was at his tea, and Hadden was admitted to the parlor, 
where he was presently joined by the gentleman he had come to see. 
Hadden apologized for intruding, and stated that a matter of impor- 
tance, which he could not at present explain, required him to ask Mr. 
Milne several questions. 

Milne was puzzled, but, being a frank, easy gentleman, he bade 
his visitor go on, and he would answer him to the best of his abil- 
ity. 

“Were you at the theatre on Monday evening last week?” 

Yes; he had been at the theatre on that evening with Frank 
Mackie and Laurence Hewitt, the lawyer. They had at first pro- 
posed to get Alick Tavendale to accompany them, but on calling at 
his lodgings he refused. They had started for the theatre. On the 
way they had met Hewitt. They had adjourned to a tavern and 
sat drinking together for a good while, and then Hewitt proposed 
that they should all go to the theatre together. They agreed. 

“Did you remain during the whole performance?” * 

“We did not wait for the last farce.” 

“Was Hewitt with you all the time?” ' ' 


A HARD KNOT. 


141 


“Yes ” — hesitating and trying to remember. “By Jove, I got so 
muzzy with drinking beer and wine that I can’t exactly remember. 
I have a dim sort of an idea, though, that he went out for a while 
and left us there. Yes, he did. I remember now. Frank wanted 
to go for some more beer, and asked where Hewitt was; and, as he 
hadn’t returned, we went into the refreshment saloon without him.” 

“ What time might it be when he left you?” 

“I’m hanged if I can remember that. I think it was somewhere 
about the end of the first or second act, and he did not come back 
till the end of the play. Frank will perhaps remember better than 
I do, I was so confoundedly muddled.” 

“ Thank you; I will call on Mr. Mackie. In a day or two I shall 
be able to explain why I have given you this trouble, ” 

And Hadden retired, his face alternately dark with frowns and 
lit with excitement. 

He called at Mackie’s, saw him, and received much the same state- 
ment as that he had obtained from Milne — with the difference that 
Mackie was almost positive Hewitt went out at the end of the first 
act and did not return till the play was over, when he told them 
that he had come during their absence at the refreshment saloon, 
and had gone out again to look for them. 

“ There’s the alibi if it were needed,” groaned Hadden, as he was 
driven away. 


CHAPTER XXX. 

IMPORTANT EVIDENCE. 

When Mr. Cargill’s carriage stopped at the sheriff’s house in 
Woodlands Road, Kate had arranged with her father that he should 
permit her to see Mr. Lyon alone in the first place. So he remained 
in the carriage, lying back on the seat, and completely hidden from 
casual observation, while she entered the house. 

She was immediately conducted to the library, where she found 
Mr. Lyon standing on the hearth, looking with an anxious expres- 
sion towards the door. 

“Miss Cargill,” he said, in a low voice that did not seem to be 
quite steady, as he bent his head. 

Never in her happiest days had she appeared to him more beau- 
tiful than now, with the shadow of her great sorrow on her face. 
Her eyes, bright with the traces of recent tears, shone with generous 
resolution and confidence. He felt that, gentle, timid as her nature 
was, it had the strength to accomplish a great duty, out of that sim- 
ple faith in truth which is the basis of the noblest heroism. 


142 


A HARD KNOT. 


With a quiet dignity she advanced to him, extending her hand, 
which he pressed respectfully. 

“We are still friends,” she said, wdth a sad smile. 

“Always friends,” he replied, handing her a chair. 

She seated herself ; Mr. Lyon remained standing. 

“You know why I have come? to ask you to prove yourself my 
friend, and help me. I have come to you because I know you are 
my friend, to confess to you that which I concealed at our last 
meeting — when — you remember — ” 

“ Yes, I remember all,” he said huskily. 

She had been too much agitated herself at first to observe his agi- 
tation ; but she observed now how his voice trembled, and his eyes 
drooped before hers. She understood how her words must pain 
him ; but they must be spoken. 

“You understand, Mr. Lyon, that I w^ould not willingly give you 
pain; and, being confident of that, I have come to implore you to 
save Alick Tavendale. I told you that I was bound to him by ties 
which could not be broken. I tell you now that he is my husband, 
and you, my friend, having the power, will help me to save him from 
his present danger.” 

Mr. Lyon’s head was bent low, so that she could not see his face ; 
but she knew by his rapid breathing that he was suifering. 

“ Alas, Mistress” — he could not pronounce the wedded name at 
that moment — “Miss Cargill, how can I help you if he is not inno- 
cent?” 

She slightly rose from her seat, protesting against the doubt with 
a gesture of her hand. 

“ How can I help you,” he w^ent on, “if it is shown that he is 
guilty?” 

‘ ‘ Ah, sir, you do not think that ?” she interrupted. 

“•I fear to answer you,” he said, sadly, “ that the proofs are so 
strong against him as to be morally conclusive of his guilt.” 

She regarded him in a species of stupor, for his words seemed to 
have crushed down the hope with which she had come to seek his 
aid. 

“ It is hard that I should be the one whose tongue must bid you 
gather up your strength to encounter the worst,” he went on agitat- 
edly: “but it is better, perhaps, that you should hear it from a 
friend than from others. His conviction is certain.” 

He had expected some wild outcry of despair, expected to see her 
overwhelmed \vith tears, or that she would faint. But he was mis- 
taken. She rose with a quiet dignity and indignation in her eyes. 

“You have condemned him already,” she cried, “ and he is inno- 
cent. Alick Tavendale is incapable of this crime, and those who 
say he is guilty lie. It is false, I say; and if he were standing there 


A HARD KNOT. 


143 


Iiimself, saying ‘I am guilty,’ I would repeat, ‘It is false— it is 
false!’” 

“He has not yet confessed, ’’continued Lyon, deeply pained by 
the stern task forced upon him, “but he will confess by and by; 
and even if he do not, the proofs are more than sufficient to condemn 
him. Listen to me, Miss Cargill, for mine is the voice of a friend. 
Be silent, and try to reconcile yourself to the thought of what must 
come in a few days.” 

“That is to say, you would have me desert my husband in the 
hour of his sorest need. Yours is the voice of the world, Mr. Lyon, 
tlie cold, callous world; but you forget I am his wife, and you 
forget her duty. When the last friend flies at the shadow of mis- 
fortune — when the last relative shrinks back from the ruin, the wife 
remains to console and sustain.” 

He could not help admiring her devotion, and pitying its object, 
while he regretted that the object had not been more worthy of it. 

“I may be timid,” sh^ went on excitedly, “ but I am not a cow- 
ard ; and, if it were needed, I, his wife, would stand beside him on 
the scaffold, and declare his innocence, in despite of justice and law 
and the world. You do not know him as I do, or you would not 
doubt him. From childhood we have known each other’s least and 
greatest thought, and I know that his heart is brave and noble.” 

Mr. Lyon passed his hand nervously through his hair. His was a 
generous, honest nature, but he would have been more than human 
had he not felt the fiery pang of jealousy shoot through him at the 
revelation of such love as this, which he had once hoped to win for 
himself, given to another. 

“All this may be true,” he said, controlling himself, “but justice 
demands the proof ; and althougli I, knowing you, and respecting 
you, can credit all you say, your declaration is valueless in the eyes 
of law.” 

“Are you sure, Mr. Lyon, that you do not wish to find Alick Ta- 
vendale guilty? Are you sure that you are an impartial judge of 
his innocence or guilt? Are you sure that there does not linger in 
your mind the memory that this man came between you and a hope 
you once cherished?” 

He was startled by the quiet solemnity of her manner; and then 
lie felt indignant at her suspicion, for he had searched his mind 
through, and found that for her sake he would rather have seen Ta- 
vendale free than have seen him condemned for any gain it might 
bring to himself. 

“Miss Cargill,” he said sternly, “if you knew what proofs are in 
my hands you would not wrong me by so grievous a suspicion. ” 

“ What proofs are there so conclusive?” 

“ The very first that occurs is alone conclusive. The murder was 


144 


A HARD KNOT. 


committed between eight and nine o’clock on Monday evening last 
week. Alick Tavendale left his lodgings about six o’clock on that 
evening, and did not return till midnight. When he returned he 
was agitated, and his clothes were soiled and wet. He refuses to 
take the very simplest means to prove his innocence — by showing 
how and where he spent that evening. ” 

Katie clasped her hands together, with a half-stifled cry of terror. 

And — and if it could be shown where he was from seven or from 
six o’clock that evening till twelve o’clock, would that save him?” 

“ Assuredly.” 

“Then he is saved— he was with me!” 

“With you!” ejaculated Mr. Lyon, astounded by this simple ex- 
planation of the most difficult point in the case. 

“ Yes, with me, at Mavisbank.” 

‘ ‘ Then the servants, your maid and all, saw him there, and can 
attest — ” 

“No, no,” she interrupted hastily. “ You know that my father 
had told him to restrict the number of his visits to our house. After 
I had learned the miserable story of my birth I wrote to him to 
come to me. He came, and when he knew all, to screen me from 
the shame that was about to fall upon us in the declaration that 
Sarah Cargill was the real heiress of my father, he insisted that we 
should be married at once. On the Saturday the marriage took 
place. On the Monday he wrote to me, desiring me to appoint an 
hour when he could see me privately that evening, for, as he had 
been at the house several times during my father’s absence, he did 
not wish the servants to see him, lest they should talk. ” 

“You made the appointment?” 

“Yes, for seven o’clock that evening. He was to come to the 
door at the foot of the garden, and I was to admit him. I obtained 
the key of the door, but it had not been used for some time, and 
when I tried to turn it in the lock I could not. Alick came while I 
was trying to unlock the door. I threw the key over the wall to 
him. He tried it, and also failed. Then he climbed over the wall, 
the top of which, as you know, is covered witli broken bottles. The 
glass tore his gloves and the knee of his trousers. We remained 
together until I heard twelve o’clock strike, and then I bade him 
go. We got a small ladder out of the toolhouse, and with its help 
he went over the wall again. Then I threw the ladder down beside 
the shrubbery.” 

“But it began to rain about nine o’clock.” 

“ Yes, and he put up his umbrella till we got into the summer- 
house. Then he stuck tlie point of the umbrella in the earth, at 
the door of the summer-house, and called it our guard.” 

“May I ask why he desired to see you on that evening?” The 


A HARD KNOT. 


145 


suspicion had flashed upon him that she might be trying to save her 
husband at the expense of truth. 

“ He wished me to go away with him at once, and then he was to 
write to my father and tell him that we were married. I refused.” 

She answered frankly; he could not doubt the truth, 

“ Your own assertion of this will not be sufficient. Have you no 
proofs? Did none of the servants see him?” 

“ I do not know. Examine them. Here is his letter asking the 
interview, and you can find mine granting it.” 

“No; it is burned.” 

He remembered the note Tavendale was said to have burned. He 
examined the one Kate handed to him; it bore no date. 

“ This is not enough.” 

‘ ‘ There is his messenger. ” 

“Ah, yes, we will find him;” and Mr. Lyon hastily wrote for In- 
spector Speirs to come to him at once. “Now,” he said, as he 
touched the bell, “I can bid you hope; for if we can find proof 
that he was at Mavisbank on Monday evening, he is safe.” 

She gave him her hand, and thanked him earnestly. Then as the 
servant entered she took her leave, happier than when { he arrived, 
for she had obtained hope. 

‘ ‘ Captain Mactier is here, sir, and desires to see you at once. ” 

“ Show him in, and send this note away instantly.” 

The servant retired, and Mr. Lyon seated himself by the table. 
He had scarcely done so when the door opened and Mactier en- 
tered, dragging in by the button of his pea-jacket a stout-set man, 
whose dress was that of a sailor. He had a round, ruddy, close- 
shaven face, with honest blue eyes, and earrings in his ears. He 
bowed awkwardly to Mr. Lyon as Mactier led him in. 

“ Here’s my man at last, sir,” said the chief constable, with an air 
of triumph. 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

MORE IMPORTANT EVIDENCE, 

If the chief constable’s introduction had not been sufficiently ex- 
plicit of itself, the big earrings his companion wore would have at 
once proclaimed him the man who had been standing at the door 
of Jean Gorbal’s house on the day of her murder, and who had sent 
Willie Thorne to Bob Little with the message, “ If he’s ready, I am.” 

But before the captain had spoken Mr. Lyon had comprehended 
all this, for he knew with what persistent energy the chief constable 
could run an idea and a criminal to the ground. He was a little 
surprised, how^ever, to observe that Mactier treated his prisoner with 


146 


A HARD KNOT. 


the playful humor he might have shown to a pet bear, rather than 
with that stern gravity he was wont to show culprits. 

“ I said eight days, sir,” he proceeded, with a chuckle of self-satis- 
faction, “ and here I am, a day before the time has expired, with the 
thread of this mysterious business in my hand; I have only to un- 
close my fingers so, and the thing is clear as daylight.” 

“ I congratulate you, captain. The matter has become so com- 
plicated that it will afford me much relief to discover the least ray 
of light,” said Mr, Lyon, quietly, and somewhat wearily; for he had 
been excited by the interview with Katie, and he had been con- 
strained to exert his will to the utmost to present a calm front to his 
new visitor. 

‘ ‘ Y ou shall be relieved at once, sir. First let me report my course. 
You are aware that I determined to find the man with the earrings ” 
— here the person referred to made an awkward salute to the magis- 
trate, by bending his body, sweeping his hat from his brow almost 
to the floor, and drawing back one of his feet, as. if he were going to 
give somebody behind a sly kick. This process he went through at 
every allusion to him. 

“ To find him,” Mactier went on, “ it became necessary to find his 
friend the boatman first. I found Bob Little, and he gave me correct 
information regarding the movements of his acquaintance, except 
that he gave me a false name for him. He called him Samuel Phil- 
lips, and stated that he was about to sail from Liverpool in the Queen 
Adelaide, bound for Australia. I went to Liverpool, but the vessel 
had sailed. I learned from the owners that a man answering the de- 
scription given had been engaged as one of the hands for the voyage ; 
but his name was not Samuel Phillips.” 

“You pursued, I presume?” 

“I would have done so, sir, but luckily I was brought in contact 
with the clerk who had been on board when the vessel sailed; and 
he informed me that up till that moment the new hand had not ap- 
peared. My man had not sailed. I- commenced again, and soon fell 
upon his track by searching the boarding-houses about the quay. I 
was enabled to follow him to London, and then to Southampton, 
where I laid hands on him. From the statement he made to me it 
became necessary for me to accompany him to Greenock. There 
his statement was verified, and we came on here with all speed. 
From himself you will learn why we Tvent to Greenock, and why I 
did not put him under lock and key at once.” 

“It wor kind on you, sir, ” muttered the man, with his awkward 
salute, and an expression of simple admiration of the ofllcial on his 
face. 

“You do not charge him, then, with the crime?” said Mr. Lyon, 
addressing Mactier. 


A HARD KNOT. 


147 


*‘No, sir; but through h^ I will reach the criminal.” 

“ What is your name, my man?” continued the magistrate, taking 
up his pen and looking at the sailor. 

Tom Gorbal, sir, seaman, A. B., at your honor’s service.” 

“Tom Gorbal?” 

“ That’s it, sir.” 

“ Were you any relation to the unfortunate woman who was mur- 
dered? You cannot be her son, for you must be as old as she was.” 

“Nigh that, your honor; and I ain’t her son, for sartin; but I wor 
a kind o’ relation. ” 

“ In what degree?” 

The man drew his sleeve across his brow, and a wry twist of his 
mouth indicated that the subject was an unpleasant one. 

. “ I wor her husband, sir,” he said, with a gulp, as if he had forced 
the w^ords out by an effort of sheer desperation. 

“ Her husband! Why, we understood her to have been a widow 
for several yeai-s.” 

“ So she wor, your honor, in one way, and so she wom’t in 
another.” 

“ You must explain this, my man; I cannot understand it.” 

Gorbal gave his weather-beaten hat a twist with his hands, and 
glanced at Mactier, as if appealing to him to make the explanation. 

“ Do it yourself, my man,” said the captain, nodding to him en- 
couragingly; “ Mr. Lyon will understand it better from you.” 

The man gave his hat another twist, and his honest brown visage 
darkened, 

“ I’ll begin at the beginning, your honor, and tell you how it 
came about. Nigh twenty-five years ago, more or less, Jean wor as 
smart a wench as any in Greenock — the smartest o’ them all, I 
thought, though she wor a bit wild and fond o’ larking about. I had 
a smack o’ my own at that_thn<3, and wor in a fair way to do well. 
But I got wild about her, and nought would serve me but to take 
her for a wife. Mother and friends warned me against it, but the 
more they warned the faster I stuck to my notion ; and we got mar- 
ried a week or two after Jean came back from Glasgow, where she’d 
been working in a mill. ” 

“ Well?” 

“ Well, it wor all right for a month or two, and then Jean got the 
wind in her sail again, and set off with some mates that wor the ruin 
on her — drinking and roaming about. I came back from a trip to 
Cork and found her at it. I blowed her up, and she wor all right 
for another spell until after our lad Tom wor born. He worn’t 
more nor eight months old wiien she broke out again. Worse luck, 
I had just had half a dozen bad trips; and, to cap all, my smack 
foundered. 


148 


A HARD KNOT. 


“We didn’t live so quiet as a pair o’ lambs lor a while after that. 
I wor sulky, and she wor wild — ever a-pointing at me, and telling 
that she would ha’ made her fortin if it hadn’t been for me; and I 
wor thinkin a bit as I’d been better to ha’ taken the warning o’ my 
friends, and left Jean to make her fortin. I wor fond o’ my lad, or 
I’d ha’ given her a clear berth at that time. 

“At whiles we made up — that wor when she wanted to coax 
something out o’ me; and it wor one o’ them whiles that she told me 
as she’d had an offer as would make a fortin for us. I wor glad to 
hear o’ that, as you may suppose; for I wor worried and in debt, 
without a farthin’ to pay it, I axed her where the fortin wor to 
be made, and I’d help her. ‘ It’s only to take one bairn and put it 
in the place o’ another,’ she said, ‘and there’s a fortin for it.’ 

“I wor staggered a good bit at that, and blowed her up again. 
But Jean had a coaxing way of her own when she liked. I w^orn’t 
a bad man, your honor, and me and mine wor always reckoned 
honest folk. We wor honest, too, for though we’d had man}'^ a hard 
strait to get through, we’d managed to steer clear o’ hurting a mate 
or cheating one either. 

“ But I wor hard-up. Jean coaxed and pointed to our lad, that 
would ha’ such a rare chance in life if we’d only a bit o’ money. 
Then she showed me how it warn’t anything pat-ticular wrong as 
she wor wanted to do, as it wor only just to lift the babby out o’ one 
berth and drop it into another. Hows’ever it came about, I dunno 
rightly, but I gave in, with this condition, that I should go with her 
and see all that wor done. 

“That wor settled, and we went to London to a big hotel, where 
m}’’ wench had a confab with a gent, as I afterwards knowed to be 
Mr. Bobert Cargill, the great mill-owner. Jean wor engaged as 
nurse to a Mistress Burnett. There was another woman, called 
Lizzie Wood, and she wor nurse to Mrs. Cargill. The trick that 
wor to be played wor this: Mrs, Cargill’s babby wor to be brought 
into the room where Jean wor nursin’ Mrs. Burnett’s babby, and the 
two were just to change hands. 

“ It looked simple enough that way; but as they were waiting for 
the chance to make the change, I got time to think, and I looked at 
it in this way; we changed the babbies; what for? I didn’t know; 
but I guessed there must ha’ been some good reason for doing it, or 
Mr. Cargill wouldn’t be so eager to get it done without anybody 
knowing on it, and to pay my wife a fortin for doing it. Looking 
at it that way, the thing didn’t seem just so simple as the other way. 

“ So while Jean wor nursin’ the bairn — Mrs. Burnett’s, I mean — I 
wor left to watch it sleepin’ while Jean wor out. I didn’t waste the 
time, for I tattooed a cross on the babby’s arm without a soul on 
them being the wiser.” 


A HARD KNOT. 


149 


‘ ‘ What, did not your wife see it ?” 

“Not until after it were done, your honor. When she did see it, 
she looked at me, and I saw there was a storm in her eye; but like 
enough she saw another in mine, for instead o’ blowing up she went 
on the coaxin’ tack again. 

“ ‘ What’s that for?’ she axed. 

“ ‘ Wait a bit and you’ll learn,’ says I. 

“She put her arm on my shoulder, and says, in a coaxing-like 
way, though I saw she wor bilin’ over with spite : 

“ ‘ You ain’t going to double on us, Tom?’ 

“ ‘ I ain’t going to have this thing done,’ says I, ‘ for there’s more 
in it nor we see. I’ve made up my mind that it sha’n’t be done, and 
I’m darned if I don’t stick to it — that’s all.’ 

“ She stood a minute as if she weren’t sure whether to blow up or 
go on coaxing; then she says, at ween two minds: 

“ ‘Look here, Tom; maybe you’re right, I won’t say you ain’t. 
But when there’s gold and silver at our feet we needn’t be too proud 
to stoop and pick it up. Now, here’s the way to settle it, and please 
all parties, and get the fortin for our lad at home all the same. ’ 

“ ‘How’s that?’ says I, doubting-like. 

“ ‘Mrs. Burnett don’t want her babby taken from her any more 
than you do; it’s only the dad as wants the thing done, and the 
mother she’s sheared to say no. Suppose we go on just as though we 
were going to do as the dad wants, and, when the time comes, let 
him believe that it’s done, while we just leave the babbies to their 
mothers without changing them at all— how do you like that, Tom? 
We ain’t rich enough, and we ain’t fools enough either, I hope, to 
throw away a fortin, when we can get it without anybody being a 
bit the worse.’ “ I didn’t like that much better than the real dodge 
at first, but sure enough it wor a temptation to a man as hard-up as 
me. The end on it all wor that I agreed.” 

“Then the children were not changed at all?” exclaimed Mr. 
Lyon. 

“We settled that they shouldn’t, but I weren’t sure that Jean 
would keep to the bargain, so I stuck by the babby night and day, 
barrin’ when it w'or in its mother’s arms. I thought it were safe 
enough there. The day came when the change was to be made, 
and into the room where Jean and me was stepped the doctor.” 

“ What was his name?” 

“ Dr. Largie were his name. He came in carryin’ the babby, and 
after him came t’other nurse, Lizzie Wood. As soon as they got 
well into the room, I shuts the door, and sets my back agin it. The 
doctor didn’t notice me at first. He were looking bad, as though 
he didn’t care about the job he were about. He went straight to 
Jean, and offered her the babby. 


150 


A HARD ItNOT. 


“ ‘Here, take the child, quick, and give me the other,’ he says, 
summat angry-like. But I’d got my eye on Jean, and instead o’ 
movin’ to do his bidding, she kept staring at me. The doctor turned 
round to see what were the matter. 

“ ‘She ain’t going to give you the babby, doctor; and you’re -go- 
ing to write down on that paper there, on the table, that we haven’t 
made no change, and that you saw a blue cross tattooed on the arm 
of Mrs. Burnett’s babby. That’ll serve to prove there weren’t no 
change, for the mark’ll be there as long as she lives.’ 

“He looked bad afore, but he looked worse now, and he were go- 
ing to get into a passion, a-swearing he’d have me turned out of the 
place. 

“ ‘ Very well,’ says I, ‘ do that, and I’ll go straight to the nighest 
police-station, and tell ’em what you’ve been up to.’ 

“At that he looked worse again, and Jean told him what we’d 
planned. He thought it over a bit, and then he said he’d consent, 
prowided none on us told Cargill. I said we’d promise that, pro- 
wided he wrote down what I told him. He were doubtful about 
that, but when he saw that nought else would quiet me, and as he 
didn’t want to be exposed, and didn’t want to offend Mistur Cargill, 
he wrote the thing out as I wanted him. 

“ Then I made Lizzie Wood sign it after the doctor. She were 
too sheared to say a word. Next I got my wench to put down her 
name, and I put mine last. The doctor carried away the same 
babby he had brought, and made Mistur Cargill believe as it were all 
right, and the job done according to order. To this day, so far as I 
knows, he believes that it was done, for Mistress Burnett was glad 
to promise to hold her tongue, on condition that her own child 
should be left to her. 

“Jean and me went back to Greenock; but the money she got 
from Mistur Cargill, and that she was to lay by for our lad, was 
the greatest misfortin to her and to me. Whenever I were away 
on a voyage of, maybe, six weeks, I came back to find every 
farthing spent. It wor hard to bear, when a man was trying to 
hold up his head in an honest way. Five years ago I got our lad 
sent off to sea; and six months after that I went home to find the 
house emptied of every stick that were in it, and Jean gone off with 
a drunken shoemaker. 

“I found her, and told her that she wouldn’t see me agin, and 
that she could do as she liked with the infernal fortin she had got 
from the great mill-owner. We parted then, your honor, and I’ve 
only seen her once since that time.” 

“ When was that?” 

“ By all accounts it were the same day as she were murdered.” 

“What did you go to her for?” 


A HARD KNOT. 


151 


“I dunno right, barrin’ that our lad were going to get married, 
and I thought somehow I’d like to see her jest once again. I saw 
her for about ten minutes, and learned that she had been passing 
herself off as a widow. That were all right. I’d no objections. I 
told her that the lad were going to get married, and she said she 
didn’t care; we’d left her to do for herself for five years, and she 
wanted to hear nothing more about any of us. She’d been drink- 
ing, although it were early in the day. She blowed up, and I left 
her in a rare passion, swearing as she’d have her wish, and that she’d 
never set eyes on Tom or me again.” 

Gorbal drew his cuff deliberately across his brow, and gave vent 
to a long breath of relief, as if he were glad that the job was over. 

“ I have no doubt that you are an honest fellow,” said Mr. Lyon, 
after a few minutes’ reflection; “but you have yourself admitted 
that, on one occasion, you made a slip, under the control of your 
wife — that throws some doubt on your information. But, while 
setting that consideration aside, your whole statement is so singular 
that we must have very decisive evidence to support it. Where is 
Dr. Largie?” 

‘ ‘ He’s dead, your honor. ” 

“ Then where is the nurse, Lizzie Wood?” 

“ She’s married, your honor, to Bob Little, and lives in Carron.” 

“And where is the paper Dr. Largie wrote?” 

“That’s what me and my mate here” — indicating the captain, 
who nodded and grinned — “went to Greenock for. I had left it, 
with two or three little things, in the care of an old pensioner I 
lodge with when I’m ashore there. Here it is.” 

He pulled, from the depths of a pocket inside his jacket, a paper 
which had grown yellow with age and dust. The document was a 
simple statement that the child known as Mrs. Burnett’s was really 
her own, and had not been exchanged for the child of Mrs. Cargill, 
as had been arranged. This the mark on the child’s arm, made 
by Tom Gorbal, would testify. It was signed George Largie, M.D., 
Elizabeth Wood, Jean Gorbal, and Tom Gorbal. 

After Mr. Lyon had carefully examined this document, he turned 
again to Gorbal. 

“You said that Mrs. Burnett was acquainted with the secret that 
her child had not beep taken from her. Have you any proof of 
that?” 

“None, 5’^our honor, barrin’ the letters she wrote to my wife, 
thanking her for what she had done, and pledging herself as she 
never would tell Mr. Cargill how he had been tricked.” 

“Humph! they are burned,” muttered the magistrate, remember® 
ing the ashes Hadden had found in the grate of the outer room. 
Clearly, had Tavendale been the guilty one, he would have pre- 


15S 


A HAllD KNOT. 


served such valuable papers, not burned them. This statement of 
Gorbal’s destroyed the motive which had been attributed to the 
prisoner for his crime, and, together with the assertion of Kate, re- 
moved all doubt of Tavendale’s innocence. 

Who, then, was the guilty one? 

As if to answer that mental question, John Hadden was an- 
nounced, When he entered the room with a worn, humiliated, and 
yet excited aspect, Mactier could not restrain a chuckle of triumph ; 
for was he not victor in the contest of skill? Hadden perceived the 
chief constable’s satisfaction, but he had no power or inclination to 
resent it. He saluted him with meek respect, and then asked Mr. 
Lyon if he had learned anything new. 

The result of Mactier’s labors was made known to him — the more 
readily, as Mr. Lyon felt that he had treated him somewhat rudely 
at their last meeting. During the recital, Hadden Siit with hands 
pressed on his head, moving his body to and fro, as he was accus- 
tomed to do when under strong emotion, and uttering an occasional 
ejaculation of surprise or expectation. When all had been ex- 
plained he started to his feet, waving his hands, while his eyes 
seemed to be starting from their sockets. 

“Her betrothed husband — in debt — only one mode of escape 
from being unmasked — only one chance to keep up the show of re- 
spectability — the letters proving the truth that would have ruined 
him burned! — I see it all, I see it all!” he cried, at the close of these 
incoherent utterances. “Give me a warrant at once!” 

“A warrant for whom?” said the sheriff, raising his brows, as if 
he half suspected that the detective’s wits were crazed. 

“For Laurence Hewitt, writer, George Street.” 

“ Why, he is Mr. Tavendale’s agent.” 

“I know, I know all that; but he is the murderer at the same 
time.” 

“ What! are you dreaming?” 

“No, no, no — I am awake, I tell you, and during the last two 
days all my inquiries, all my searching, end with him. I have tried 
to blind myself to it, but I can do so no longer. Laurence Hewitt 
is engaged to marry Sarah Burnett. She has shown him the letters 
she found, as she did to me. He has spoken to her mother, and 
learned the truth from her. Sarah could not know the real facts; 
she would be too much shocked by the discovery she had made. 
Hewitt was to be her husband, and she would believe anything he 
told her. Do you not see? He was fond of pleasure, in debt, and 
under the hardest of all necessities, that of concealing his bank- 
ruptcy by keeping up an appearance of plenty. Can you not un- 
derstand how the man smarted and writhed? Then he discovered 
that only an old drunken woman stood between him and a million,” 


A HARD KNOT. 


153 


“Thanks lo rny man,” said Mactier, complacently, and for once 
agreeing with his rival, “you have reached the truth at last: I be- 
lieve that’s it.” 

“Give Captain IVIactier the warrant!” cried Hadden. 

“No,” said Mr. Lyon, deliberately; “we were too hasty on the 
last occasion, we must not commit a similar blunder this time. We 
will make some further inquiries, and if they confirm what you have 
stated, you shall have the warrant to-morrow.” 

“To-morrow will be too late — he has an alibi ready — he has 
means of obtaining early information of our movements, and to- 
morrow he will be far beyond our reach. ” 

Thereupon he rapidly narrated all that he had discovered, and, at 
the suggestion of the chief constable, Mr. Lyon yielded to Hadden’s 
request, and granted the warrant. He, however, cautioned Mactier 
not to use it until he had made inquiries relative to Mr. Hewitt’s 
movements during his absence from the theatre on the Monday 
evening. 

That was the keenest cut of all poor Hadden had received, for it 
showed how little confidence was placed in him ; and he thereupon 
determined in his own mind that, this case settled, it should be his 
last. 


CHAPTER XXXH. 

AT BAY. 

It was almost dark when Hadden and Mactier, accompanied by 
Speirs, quitted the magistrate’s house; rain had begun to fall, and 
the wind was rising to unusual violence. As the evening advanced 
the wind and rain swept all passengers within doors. The broad 
flashes of lightning vividly illumed the dark streets of the city ; and 
the thunder cracked over the houses, shaking them to their founda- 
tions. 

About midnight the storm was at its worst, and only the few who 
were moved by the greatest necessity ventured forth. 

One of the few w^as a man in a thick overcoat, the collar of which 
was drawn up round his neck, meeting the flaps of the travelling- 
cap he wore, and both serving in a slight degree to protect him from 
the storm, and to conceal his features at the same time. The latter, 
indeed, seemed to be his chief anxiety; for there was something in 
his stealthy, rapid gait which intimated that he was thinking little of 
wind or rain. 

He passed along Renfield Street, and then into Hill Street; he 
stopped at the door of the late Mrs. Burnett’s house; he rang the 


154 


A HARD KNOT. 


bell furiously, and repeated the summons impatiently, without giv- 
ing time for any one to answer. 

A few seconds had elapsed when the door was opened, and Sarah 
herself, partly undressed, with her rich black hair down, stood on 
the threshold, shading a candle with her hand from the wind, and 
peering at the impatient and untimely visitor. With a start of sur- 
prise she recognized him. 

“What has happened? Why are you here at this hour?” she 
cried excitedly. 

“ Let me in,” was the husky answer. 

She drew back ; the man followed her into the house, closing and 
bolting the door behind him, and further securing it with the chain. 
Then he seized Sarah's arm, and drew her into the parlor, as if he 
were well acquainted with the house. 

The big, dark eyes of Sarah rested on him with an expression of 
sharp inquiry, while she seemed to shrink from the touch of his 
hand, as if influenced by an instinct of horror rather than by reason. 
He had raised the peak of his cap, and it was with a bitter smile 
that he released her arm. At the moment, the light she held fell 
full upon his face, revealing the smile and a ghastly pallor, with a 
strange something in his eyes "which made her draw back a pace, 
uttering a stifled cry. 

The something which had startled her was the look of a maniac, 
who, finding his utmost cunning outwitted, stands ready to spring 
fiercely at the throat of the first pursuer. 

“You are ill,” she said, with more of the woman in her dry voice 
than usual, although she evidently spoke with a desperate effort to 
break the oppressive stillness which had prevailed from the moment 
the key had been turned in the lock. 

“ Yes, I am ill,” he answered, wildly, with a nervous motion of his 
arms, as if he were throwing something from him; “the game is 
up!” 

“Do you mean that your creditors will not give you a little time? 
Were they not satisfied with the two thousand?” 

‘ ‘ Creditors 1 ay, my creditors are closing upon me ; they will not 
give me time, they are at my heels now, and they will hunt me 
down,” he said, huskily; and then, with sudden passion, “lam leav- 
ing Scotland — a fugitive, an outlaw — will you go with me?” 

“Go with you?” 

“Ay, will you throw away the fortune that may still be yours, de- 
spite my ruin? Will you forsake the luxury, the wealth, your mill- 
ionaire father can give you, and come with me — my wife in shame 
and exile, not wealth and high position, as we had hoped ?” 

He stood in an agony of suspense, awaiting her reply. The placid, 
respectable Mr. Hewitt had vanished altogether, and there stood in 


A HARD KNOT. 


155 


his place a man swayed by the fiercest passions of human nature — 
selfish love and great terror. 

She stood bewildered, as if unable to understand him, and uncertain 
how to act. But the bewilderment passed away, and she became 
cold and calm as on the morning when she had first told John Had- 
den her strange story. 

“Has anything been discovered?” she asked, in steady tones. 

“Everything!” 

“It is known, then, that you liave attempted to take advantage of 
tlie accident by which Mr. Cargill’s scheme for the change of places 
between myself and his wife’s daughter was not effected, and that I 
have attempted to defraud Kate Cargill of her birthright — is all that 
known?” 

“It is known only that I, being aware of the truth, have for my 
own gain endeavored to get you recognized as Mr. Cargill’s legiti- 
mate daughter. If you like to stay here, it is still open for you to 
save yourself from the millionaire’s displeasure. Renounce me — 
tell everything that has happened between us. Let them know that 
you had seen no more than the letters you showed the old fool Had- 
den, and that he believed all you said. Tell them that I hoodwinked 
you, lied to you, and forced you to act as you have done.” 

“ And you?” 

“ I will never return to interfere with your enjoyment of whatever 
fortune may be given to you. Have no fear on my account — you 
are safe from me.” 

He spoke bitterly, as if her rejection of him at the moment were 
certain; and as if he accepted the revelation of her indifference to 
his fate as a punishment. 

“And you believe that Mr. Cargill will still provide for me,” she 
went on calmly, ‘ ‘ even when he knows that I have attempted to de- 
ceive him?” 

“He will know that you did not make the attempt wilfully, and 
so he will provide for you.” 

“Then why should you fly? Why not remain, and share what- 
ever he may give me?” 

He was silent, and that wild expression in his eyes became more 
marked. 

“ Answer,” she said; “ why should you fly?” 

There was a loud summons at 'the outer door, which caused the 
man and woman to start in alarm. He gripped her arm with a 
trembling grasp, and, bending over her, hissed in her ear: 

“That is why I must go. The truth as regards you is known, 
and the murderer of Jean Gorbal is discovered.” 

“ In whom?” 

“In me — ” 


156 


A HARD KNOT. 


She sprang back from him, horrified; and the knocking at the 
outer door increased in violence. 

“ It was for your sake as much as my own,” he cried, desperately; 
‘ ‘ the woman held proofs more than enough to thwart our scheme 
twenty times. She would not sell them; she would not part with 
them; there was no resource but to remove her or resign the prize 
we strove for, and so nearly won. Do you go or stay? I have no 
time for words now — let one decide. ” 

‘ ‘ Had you been poor — had there only been the fraud, I would 
have clung to you; but — but — ” 

“But you cannot go Avith a murderer, you would say. Enough — 
I go alone.” 

The sounds at the door indicated that those without were trying 
to break it open. 

Hewitt sprang by his shuddering companion. She clutched at 
him, and caught the sleeve of his coat. 

“ No, no, Laurence!” she cried, with the light of a nobler passion 
than any her nature seemed capable of on her face. “In shame 
and disgrace I will go with you, for — I love you.” 

And with hysterical sobs she staggered forAvard, falling insensible 
at his feet. 

The outer door was 5delding, and with a savage growl of despair 
and rage Hewitt sprang away from the unhappy woman. He threAv 
up the back-window of the lobby, and dropped out in the darkness 
and rain, just as the door Avas forced open. 

Hadden, the captain, and a couple of constables rushed into the 
house. But they found only Sarah Burnett lying in a helpless 
SAvoon, incapable of giving them any information, even had she been 
Avilling to do so. 

The open Avindow, however, told them enough for their purpose. 
The captain and the policemen pursued the fugitive. Hadden, in 
a half-crazy state of anger with the villain, and pity for the poor 
creature wdiom he believed to be the victim of Hewitt’s knavery, 
stayed behind the others to give her w^hat assistance she needed. 

He remained with her for two hours after he had succeeded in re- 
storing her to consciousness. She had looked up with wild, plead- 
ing eyes into his face, muttering, “ Is he safe?” Then she had bowed 
her head — sullenly it seemed — and had not looked at him again. 
She did not speak a word more — not even when he bade her good- 
night, and begged her to tell him if there was anything he could do 
to serve her. He went away dissatisfied and unhappy. 


A HARD KNOT. 


157 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 

I 

MR. HADDEN’S NOTE BOOK. 

What a fool I have been — what a blind, blundering idiot! I 
won’t think of that now. I’ll look only to what is before me to do. 
I have nearly brought an innocent man to the scaffold with my vain 
theories, my bombastic self-conceit, my mountebank sharpness, which 
would see farther through a milestone than other people. I am in 
a rage with myself. So would anybody else be who was so bitterly 
sensible of bungling stupidity as I am. 

But I am punished. I mean to save him, and I’ll do it; and I’ll 
write down everything here to be a warning to me as long as I live, 
never to attempt the solution of another problem which involves 
human life or character. If I do, may I be — well, never mind. I 
won’t; that’s enough. But I’ll save him. 

Oh, how that mad vanity of my pitiful nature shows itself even in 
the few lines written here I How many personal pronouns are there 
in it? An eminent calligraphist, who used to profess to judge char- 
acter from the handwriting, and to predict the probable future by 
that judgment, but who made the unlucky mistake one day of sign- 
ing another man’s name to a bill instead of his own, and was con- 
victed of forgery chiefly through my “ extraordinary perseverance and 
astuteness,” as the papers called it — this eminent calligraphist, before 
his departure for the colonies, let me into one or two secrets of his 
craft. This was one of them: 

“ Whenever you find a man using the pronoun ‘I’ twice in one 
sentence, you may be sure he is a vain man, consequently a foolish 
one, and therefore a pigeon ready for a cunning man to pluck. My 
experience has never found that theory at fault. But, mind, you 
cannot judge women by the same theory. Poor wretches! it comes 
natural to them^to begin or end every sentence with their own or 
their lover’s individuality personified.” 

He is quite right, and I am a vain man, consequently a foolish one 
— and therefore, etc. — but I’ll save Alick Tavendale, all the same. 

Now, let me try to write' coolly and sensibly. 

Poor Sarah! Poor! Good Heaven— can I, do I, pity her? Yes, 
I can and do pity her. Whatever may be her share in this dark 
business, I will not believe she had anything to do with Jean Gor- 


158 


A HARD KNOT. 


bal’s death or had any power to prevent it. That villain Hewitt de- 
ceived her, blinded her, all the more easily because she loved him 
so. She is a brave girl, and if ever there was such a thing as heroic, 
clinging, desperate love expressed by a woman’s face and voice, it 
was expressed by hers when she came out of the faint and asked if 
he was safe. 

Had it been my luck to have been a younger man — had it been 
my luck to have obtained such a store of affection, how I would 
have worked and toiled and fought to have made myself worthy of 
it, to have made a home worthy of her ! 

But that has got nothing to do with the business in hand. Once 
for all, let me thrust my own pain and regret aside, and proceed to 
the narrative of the events in a straightforward, business-like fash- 
ion. 

Poor girl, she was cruelly wounded by the events of that night. 
I had no heart to question her — no heart to try to force her to the 
confession which might have helped us to track the ruffian sooner. 
The long and the short of it was, I could not ask a single question, 
although perfectly aware that I was not doing my duty, and that 
Mactier would have made much of my failure if he had known it. 
How could I ask her to help in hanging the man to whom she had 
given a heart that had the strength of any half-dozen women’s hearts 
I ever heard of — except, maybe. Queen Elizabeth’s, and she was a 
fine woman! 

I left her without having made the slightest attempt to ascertain 
anything as to the direction in which he had tied. The truth is that 
nothing short of the memory of Tavendale’s danger, the result of my 
own bungling, would have induced me to continue the pursuit. Had 
it not been that he lay in jail with a mountain of evidence raised 
against him by my hands, there is every probability that I would 
have become an aider and abetter in the crime by covering Hewitt’s 
escape. 

But, although I was ready to sacrifice my duty to the innocent 
one whose life was threatened, so far as to avoid wringing Sarah’s 
heart, I could not altogether forget, and leave Hewitt to escape with- 
out trying to stop him. Besides, I hated the wretch for being such 
a fool as to sacrifice such a noble woman to his own ambition. That 
was what he had done— nothing less. For, let the matter end as it 
might, shame and ruin fell to her portion. 

Captain Mactier and his men found the wundow by which he had 
escaped from the house wide open. They tracked him across several 
back-yards and out to the street. They separated, and each took a 
different route : the captain taking the most promising one himself, 
whieh would soon have brought him to the fugitive’s heels if it had 
not been the wrong direction altogether — as usual with the captain. 


A HARD KNOT. 


159 


There was not one of them paused to learn what I might dis- 
cover from Sarah; they positively ran from the house as if their 
man had been in sight. 

But I did not hurry so. First, because several minutes were neces- 
sary to regain self-possession, without which there was little hope 
of my labor availing much. Second, because a few minutes more 
were necessary to enable me to settle with myself whether to go on 
or stop ; and third, because there was no advantage to be gained in 
hurrying. 

He had got the start, and he had got clear off. Then the first 
thing for me to do — since for Tavendale’s sake I was compelled to 
go on— was to discover the direction he had taken. It was too late 
for him to get a train to anywhere. , Would he take a cab? No. 
An ordinary criminal seeking the best palpable means to outrun pur- 
suit would be certain to do that. But Hewitt was no ordinary crimi- 
nal ; a man who had arranged everything regarding the crime with 
such precision; a man of education, and possessed of all the re- 
sources which a legal training could add to an unusually clear and 
penetrating intellect, would not, even in the confusion of unexpected 
discovery, commit such a blunder as to hire a vehicle, which would 
be like laying down a line for the guidance of the pursuers in his 
track. 

Whatever way he turned he would perform the first stage of the 
journey on foot. 

I was working out this conclusion when somebody touched my 
arm. It was Willie Thorne. He is a wonderful lad. I foresee a 
brilliant future for him; he will either be a great detective or a 
great rascal. He is on the straight road to the former at present; 
but everything will depend on circumstances. 

He supplied the information which I had feared it would require 
days to discover. He knew the direction Hewitt had taken, and, as 
I had calculated, he travelled on foot. 

Willie had been the first to enter the house, and the first to slip 
through the open window. He had caught sight of the fugitive as 
he made his way to the street, and was able to describe enough of 
his dress to help me to trace him. He wore a large overcoat, and 
a travelling-cap, with the lappets pulled down over his ears. 

The boy, as soon as he had caught sight of him, thought of shout- 
ing for me; but he had luckily checked himself, remembering that 
I could not hear him, while Hewitt would. 

Darting out into the street, he knocked against a gentleman who 
was passing. 

He halted, begged the passenger’s pardon, and explained that he 
was running after a friend who had just left, and to whom he had 
forgotten to deliver a particular message. The gentleman begged 


160 


A HARD KNOT. 


him not to trouble himself about the collision, bowed, and walked 
on. 

Hewitt took the opposite direction with all the speed one in pur- 
suit of a friend might have displayed. 

Admirable! The coolness, the aptitude for any emergency, and 
the courage which could halt to make an apology when life itself 
was dependent on every instant ! A^iill I ever manage to cope with 
this fellow? 

If I have got any gift of shrewdness or penetration, here is a 
rogue who calls its utmost effort into action, here is a game that is 
'worth all the petty triumphs of my past experience to win. I begin 
to feel that it will be possible to retire with some contentment if 
my exertions are successful in this matter. We shall see. 

To proceed with Willie’s information. He had thought of run- 
ning forward and telling the gentleman the real cause of Hewitt’s 
haste, and claiming his assistance in detaining him; but he re- 
frained, cunningly reflecting that he would only get his ears cuffed 
for his pains, instead of obtaining the required assistance, while he 
would make Hewitt aware that he was followed. 

The streets were deserted, so that it became difficult for Willie to 
pursue unobserved. He kept close to the wall, and on the opposite 
side of the street. But there appeared to have been little necessity 
for that precaution; for Hewitt, walking at his highest speed, kept 
the lad running the whole way — and he is a good runner. The man 
did not once turn his head to see whether or not the road was clear 
behind him. 

He got into the Cowcaddens, and at the corner of Wellington 
Street halted. He looked up and down the street, as if he had not 
made up his mind which way he would take. 

Willie stood in a doorway, with his bonnet concealing the lower 
part of his face, lest the lamp shining opposite should discover it to 
the man — everything else was so dark and black. The rain was pat- 
tering on his bare head and tossing his shaggy hair. I would have 
liked to have seen the little rascal at the moment, with his cat’s eyes 
twinkling over the cap at our precious rat. 

Hewitt’s glance up and down the street showed him nothing but 
the dark houses frowning at him, and pools of -water shining under 
the lamps and spattering under the heavy rain. He heard nothing 
but the pattering of the rain and the wind rushing up the street and 
whistling up the closes. At any rate, I can’t fancy how he could 
have seen or heard anything more, considering that the stormy 
night had driven not only every citizen but every policeman — who 
should have kno-wn better — to seek shelter. 

That accounts for the runaway getting such a clear course. If it 
had only been a dry night, he would have been stopped before he 


A HARD KNOT. 


161 


had made half the distance. But policemen have no more relish 
for ten hours’ parade in a wet suit than other people, and no 
stronger constitutions to stand it. At the same time, it’s thunder- 
ingly annoying that they have not. 

Whether Hewitt was satisfied with his inspection or not he did 
not stand long. It’s my opinion he had every step he took planned 
beforehand, with the same mathematical precision he had planned 
the details of the murder. He had laid down exactly what he was to 
do in the event of success or failure, in the event of the best or worst, 
so that, however things turned out, he could not be taken by surprise. 

He started in the direction of Buchanan Street. He chose the 
most important streets for his flight. 

That amazed me for the first minute or two after hearing it; and 
I stopped Willie till I had time to think it out. When I had 
thought it out it only added another grain to my admiration of the 
villain’s cunning. 

A bungling rascal, who is always being found out, would have 
crawled through all the lanes and closes in the town to his destina- 
tion; and, twenty chances to one, in some dark corner he would 
have been pounced upon by a brace of our men. First, because it 
was a dark corner, and the natural inference would be that he had 
no business to be there; and, second, because our men, having had 
so much to do with such bungling rascals, have got the stupid 
idea fixed like a rock in their minds that there are no rogues in 
the daylight. 

That’s the kind of idea which made Mactier miss the grandest 
triumph of his career. 

Hewitt, not being a bungling rascal, selected the broadest way 
he could find for his route. First, because it was the quarter in 
which he knew he would be most free from the observation or 
interruption of the most vigilant of the force. 

So, while Mactier and his men were burrowing in the purlieus 
of the town, here was our fugitive walking coolly along its high- 
way. 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 

MORE OR MR. HADDEN ’S NOTE-BOOK. 

Tracked. 

He proceeded to the Royal George Hotel. The house had, of 
course, been closed for several hours, and all lights were out. But 
there was no gate on the entry to the stable-yard, and into the 
yard stepped our man, Willie crawling after him. 

It is an old-fashioned place with some old-fashioned habits. The 


162 


A HARD KNOT. 


hostler, when he is where he should he— and I, knowing something 
of his character, may say, mildly, that he is often where he is not 
expected to be — but when he is at home he sleeps in a room above 
the stable. 

The door of his crib is reached from the yard by a flight of nar- 
row stone steps, much the worse for many years’ wear, and, in con- 
sequence of their not being protected by a railing, rather danger- 
ous to any man who happens to be unsteady on his legs. The 
steps were all the more dangerous when the yard was in such a 
state of darkness as that of this stormy night when Hewitt en- 
tered it. 

The place w^as so dark that Willie could not see him at all, and 
could only track him by the sound of the light fall of his steps; 
and he was not a little afraid that any accident might cause him 
to stumble against our man. 

But he is a sharp lad, and he did not make a step himself un- 
til after he had heard the sound of Hewitt’s. When the sound 
stopped he stopped, and one of the pauses w^as so long that he 
began to fear that he had missed his prey altogether. 

He became restless, but he did not move. He set his teeth to- 
gether, and held himself down steadily in the one spot. He 
strained his eyes trying to see through the darkness. That did not 
help him; and at last he was on the point of running out of the 
3"ard to search the street, when he heard a thud like the soft part 
of the clinched hand striking against a door. 

He crept towards the sound three paces and waited. 

It was repeated. 

Three paces more, and he waited until he had counted seventy- 
three, Then there appeared a thin streak of light just above 
his head, and he crouched down at the foot of the steps leading 
to the hostler’s crib, at which point he discovered Hewitt by the 
feeble streak through the chink of the door. 

“What’s the matter now?” was growled out from behind the 
door, as the bolt was drawn and the latch raised. 

Hewitt pushed open the door and rushed in, and the door was 
closed again, Willie heard the bolt shot into its socket, or fancied 
he heard it. At any rate, he ran the hazard of detection, and darted 
up the stair in time to hear the hostler’s exclamation of surprise and 
recognition : 

“Hullo! what the devil brings you here?” 

Willie flattened his ear against the door. 

“All right, Nick,” was Hewitt’s answ^er, in a tone that was sharp 
and yet conciliatory; “ I wanted to see you on business, and as I am 
leaving the town in a hurry, I had no help for it but to rouse you 
up.” 


A HARD KNOT. 


163 • 


There was no response to this for a minute, and, in spite of wind 
and rain, my lad fancied he could hear the two men breathing heav- 
ily. Then — 

“Let’s have a look at you,” said Nick, and the light moved as if 
he were holding it up to the man’s face. “You look queer— haven’t 
had a split with your rich wife that is to be?” 

“No.” 

That was a hard, steady negative, and implied that he was ready 
to knock any fellow down who dared to say anything to the con- 
trary. 

“Haven’t come to ask me to hold over that balance of the two 
thousand again?” 

“No.” 

The light was set down on the floor. Willie could tell that by the 
movement of the streak that was shining through the chink. 

“Then what the blazes have you come about?” exclaimed Nick, 
as if he were disposed to become angry at the short answers he re- 
ceived, and at his failure to guess the particular object of this late 
visit. 

If I had been there I would have guessed that he wanted to put 
off time so as to let the heat of the pursuit pass before he ventured 
out. And I would have been as much mistaken as my friend 
Dandy Nick was in his guesses. 

Hewitt gave a sort of laugh which made my lad’s flesh creep. He 
said it was more like the rattle in a dying man’s throat than any- 
thing else he had ever heard. 

“I’ll tell you fast enough,” he answered, when he had got his 
horrible croak over; “but first, have you got anything to drink, 
or a pipe?” 

“ I have nothing to drink here, but I have a pipe.” 

“ Well, give us a puff. I want a stimulant of some sort.” 

There was silence for a little while, and then the smell of tobacco. 

“Maybe you’ll tell me now what lark you’re after?” cried Nick, 
as if he were getting into a worse humor than before. 

“All right; hurry no man’s cattle. You see how cool I am sit- 
ting here, smoking my pipe of peace, while half the peelers in the 
town are whooping after me!” 

“What for?” 

Nick’s voice sank to a terrified whisper as he made the inquiry. 
That’s the one good quality in this rascal’s character; his little, 
shrivelled soul has a fine sense of the majesty of the law. 

“Would you very much like to know?” rejoined Hewitt, jeeringly. 

How can the fellow have cultivated such enormous coolness? I 
can only imagine it the result of the mathematical accuracy of every 
step he took and of every word he uttered. 


164 


A HARD KNOT. 


“I would — I shall — I must know this minute!” almost shrieked 
the other. 

“Very well, don’t get into hysterics. I’ll tell you. Put out the 
light.” 

“ Why?” 

“It may be seen outside, and we may have more visitors than we 
want. Blow it out.” 

“I won’t; and the more who see it the better for me, and the 
sooner you get out of this the better for you. I’ve got eyes, and 
it doesn’t need a cuter chap than me to see that there is some- 
thing more than two or three months in quod will pay for on 
your shoulders. I am not going to have myself implicated ; so 
clear out of this, if j^ou don’t want me to holler out loud enough 
to bring them same peelers you told me about within arm’s reach 
of you. Now, I give you two jiffies to get out.” 

Nick spoke boldly enough, but he was shivering all the time. 
And it must be owned that to be alone in a stable-loft with such a 
man as Hewitt, with such a look on his visage as he must have 
had, was not a pleasant position. 

“Very well,” was the perfectly quiet answer, “I’ll go; but if I 
had known that you were such an infernal coward, I w^ould not 
have troubled myself about the account I came to settle with you 
to-night.” 

“The two thousand — have you got it with you— the whole of it?” 
cried Nick, his greed getting the better of his terror. 

“Yes, the whole of it. Look at that — keep your hands off, 
though. ” 

“Another order for two thousand, signed by Robert Cargill?” 
said Nick, eagerly, and astonished. “That’s the ticket. Tip it 
over. ” 

“Thank you. In the meanwhile I’ll tip it into my pocket, and 
when you have done what I want you to do, then I’ll give it to 
you.” 

The hostler spoke sulkily after that. 

“What do you want me to do? Haven’t I done enough for you! 
Haven’t I put myself into all sorts o’ scrapes for you to get that 
cash and save you from bursting up long ago? You know that if 
it hadn’t been for me your black cloth coat wouldn’t have saved 
the respectable dodge you have been carrying on this long while. 
If it hadn’t been for me there’s not a man in the town who wouldn’t 
have known the steady, mealy-mouthed Mister Hewitt to be what 
he is, a beggar who had got on a horse, and was riding to the 
devil.” 

Hewitt laughed again, and then, wdth the utmost contempt, he 
said: 


A HARD KNOT. 


165 


“ Ball ! A sermon from Dandy Nick is a treat, but I cannot afford 
time to hear more of it at present. I’ll tell you what I want. I am 
going to Edinburgh. I will not trouble you with my address; but I 
wish a certain lady to know where to communicate with me. ” 

“ And who is she?” 

“Miss Burnett, Hill Street. I can write the note on a leaf of 
my pocket-book here, and I can trust you with it open for two rea- 
sons : first, because in spite of all your cunning you will not be able 
to read it; and next, because if you attempt to play any trick with 
me you will never see a penny of your money.” 

“ Supposing I don’t want to be trusted with it,” snarled the hostler, 
sulkier than ever, ‘ ‘ and supposing I won’t go with it, what’ll you 
say then?” 

“ Say? Why, good-bj^e, and you may say good-bye to your cash 
at the same time.” 

“But suppose you don’t get the chance of saying good-bye? sup- 
pose I won’t let you budge one foot from this place till you hand 
over that order?” 

“ You’re an ass, Nick.” 

“ Oh, you think so,” said he, feebly sarcastic, 

“ I’m sure of it,” Hewitt went on, quite calmly; “because a man 
of my nature, in my position, would strangle you at the first sign of 
an intention to raise the alarm.” 

“ Then we’ll try it.” 

There was a rush, and the door shook as if the hostler were trying 
to open it, and was suddenly hurled back; there was a sound as of a 
man falling on the floor. Then Hewitt’s voice, still undisturbed : 

“ I told you that you arc an ass, Nick. Now take your choice : 
do as I bid you and get your money, or take your own way and lose 
everything.” 

“I’ll do what you want,” answered Nick, huskily, as if he were 
choking. 

For several minutes neither spoke. Hewitt appeared to occupy 
the time in writing the note, which he now gave to the unwilling 
messenger. 

“ Take that to Hill Street,” he said, “ and mind what you’re about. 
The house is most probably watched; see that you don’t fall into the 
hands of the beaks ; and don’t let yourself be dodged in coming back 
to me here.” 

“Are you to wait here?” 

“ I can’t think of a safer place. Off you go; the lady will not be 
in bed,, and so you can ring the bell as quietly as possible. She has 
had one fright to-night already, and I want to know how she stands 
it without giving her another. Come back sharp, as I must be on 
the road to Edinburgh in another hour.” 


166 


A HARD KNOT. 


“ Are you to walk?” 

“ Perhaps I’ll borrow a horse from you.” 

Nick muttered something which my lad did not hear; for, having 
discovered where Hewitt was Ao wait and where the hostler was going 
to, he thought it time to start, so that he might be at Hill Street be- 
fore Nick. 

He managed that, and found me waiting, in the quandary about the 
whole business which I have described. The hostler was delayed on 
his journey to Hill Street, and so, previous to his arrival, Willie had 
time to explain all the foregoing, which I have amended by informa- 
tion subsequently received. 

My plan was speedily arranged. 

I took Willie with me and planted him near the corner of the 
street, at the mouth of a dark close. As soon as he saw Nick Ogg 
enter the house he was to run for a couple of constables. 

Then I walked up to Sarah’s house— poor lass, I wish it could 
have been done any other way — and knocked quietly. The girl, 
Susan Barr, opened the door on the chain and peeped out from be- 
hind her apron, with which she had been rubbing her eyes furiously. 

“Open, Susan, and let me in,” I whispered mysteriously; “it is 
for your poor mistress’s sake.” 

And so it was. Heaven knows ; for surely it was the duty of any- 
body who cared a pin for her to save her from further contact with 
that scoundrel. 

“ Oh, sir, she’s awfu’ bad!” sobbed Susan, who knew nothing of 
my share in the late disturbance; “an’ she’s locked her door since 
you gaed awa’, and she’ll no speak a word.” 

The chain was unfastened, and I stepped into the lobby, closing 
the door behind me. 

“ Don’t disturb her just now, Susan, by saying I am here. All I 
want to do is to prevent a man who is coming from seeing her and 
annoying her. She has had sorrow enough for one night.” 

“ It’s very kind o’ you, sir, and I’ll do just as you bid me.” 

“ That’s right; you are a sensible lassie.” 

Now I have him, safe and sure. 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

MORE OF MR. HADDEN’s NOTE-BOOK. 

Success so far. 

I GAVE Susan the necessary instructions. I did not flatter her 
when I said she was a sensible lassie. She would have been a very 
sensible lassie if it had not been for an excessive disposition to rub 


A HARD KNOT. 


167 


her eyes, sigh “ Oh, sir, it’s awfu’!” and blow her nose at the same 
time. This disposition, besides producing a rather discordant noise, 
rendered it a little difficult to explain anything to her. She under- 
stood me at last, and with some effort managed to keep quiet. 

I went into the parlor and took my place beside the window. 
Susan sat down near the door. Poor Sarah was in the next room, 
making no movement or sound of any kind. I wonder now what 
she could have been doing, for she was as still almost as the body of 
her mother, which was lying cold and silent in the bedroom. 

The worse things turn out for the best sometimes, and perhaps 
Sarah’s loss was one of those worst things. 

I raised the window-blind about half an inch, and by the help of 
a street lamp opposite I was enabled to observe the door. 

I watched steadily for a quarter of an hour, and yet the hostler had 
not appeared. I began to fear tliat some accident had happened after 
Willie had run from the stable-yard, and that Nick was not com- 
ing. 

Still I did not doubt that he would come, unless he had a great deal 
more respect for public justice than I ever accredited him with. In 
that case he might have gone in search of Captain Mactier, and de- 
livered the criminal over to him at once. That was not in the least 
likely, considering that he had such a large sum of money at 
stake. 

But I am nervously inclined to look at the worst side of things* 
and to doubt success even when it is within my grasp. Like Napo- 
leon the Great, I prepare for defeat. 

I felt myself pretty sure that Nick would deliver his message; and 
I felt pretty sure also that Hewitt would not stir from his hiding- 
place until he had received the answer. Not that I believed him 
capable of a regard for Sarah half strong enough to make him risk his 
own worthless neck on her account; but I believed he would require 
her assistance. Or, worse still, he might be mean enough to doubt 
her affection, and consequently he would be anxious to assure him- 
self — on his usual mathematical principles— that whatever happened 
she would not give evidence against him. 

Faugh! how little a bad nature can understand a good one! 

I was sure he would come, and he came. At the first glimpse I 
caught of the hostler’s wiry little body I dropped the blind. 

“ Now, Susan, there’s the man; keep quiet and do as I told you.” 

There was a timid sort of a ring as I spoke ; and Susan, having 
blown her nose quietly to intimate assent to my wishes, stepped into 
the lobby. She had a candle and matches ready, and struck a light. 
I should have observed before that we purposely remained in the 
dark. 

While Susan proceeded to answer a second summons of the bell, 


168 


A HARD KNOT. 


and a more decisive one than the first, I slipped over to the door of 
Sarah’s room and listened. 

Not a sound, not a movement. There vras a light burning in her 
room — I was sorely tempted, and I yielded to the temptation. 

I peeped through the keyhole. 

She was sitting before the table, the light drawn close to her, and 
her hands, resting on the table, clasped a bundle of papers. Letters? 
No doubt, and letters from him. 

Her face was as white as chalk, and as hard-looking as if it had 
been one of those wretched little cast-iron ornaments you see in 
kitchens. She had been sitting that way for hours, I suppose, with 
all the dead hopes crushed there in her hands; with her whole heart 
and body frozen. .1 do not like to look upon death, but I would 
rather have spent a week in a family tomb, with all the coffins un- 
covered, than have looked for that one moment upon her living face, 
with its cold, dead calm. 

I was glad to hear Susan’s voice. It recalled me to business. 

I drew back from Sarah’s room, and stood at the end of the lobby, 
listening to what passed at the outer door. 

“ It’s a note for Miss Burnett,” I heard Nick say, nervously, “ and 
I must have an answer. ” 

‘ ‘ My mistress canna be spoken to the nicht, but you can leave the 
note and ca’ back in the mornin’. ” 

“That won’t do. The gentleman can’t wait. I w^asn’t to leave 
without the answer.” 

“Very well,” answered Susan (playing her part admirably), “if 
ye’ll come in a minute I’ll gi’e her your message.” 

She opened the door, and permitted the hostler to enter. She 
locked and chained the door before leaving him. Then she left him 
standing in the dark, and brought the note and tlie light to me. 

The note was simply a leaf of an ordinary pocket-book, carefully 
folded. I opened it at once, and read : 

‘ ‘ I am safe. Say nothing, and xcait. ’ ’ 

I turned the paper over and over, but could find nothing more 
than these words. That puzzled me, for the information Willie had 
given me had led me to expect some mysterious writing in cipher 
which would have given me the clew to the place where Hewitt pro- 
posed to hide himself, in the event of his escaping me at the stable. 

I began to suspect a ruse of some sort, but of what sort I could 
not form the least idea, and I had no time to give the matter suffi- 
cient consideration at that moment. I knew him to be capable of 
the most unaccountable manoeuvres — unacountable, that is, to a 
second party, but perfectly clear to himself, and definite in their 
aim. 

Prompt action became all the more necessary. I took the candle 


A HARD KNOT. 


169 


from Susan, and marched out to my friend Niek. I held the light 
up, so that he might see my face at once. 

He recognized me, and at the same moment gave a snort like a 
pig alarmed, wheeled about to the door, attempting to open it. 

“ Don’t be in a hurry, Nick,” I said; “ I have got the key here, 
and I will let you out in time enough.” 

He saw that he was in a trap, and like a sensible fellow submitted — 
very doggedly, though. He fumbled in his trousers pockets with 
his hands, then suddenly began to button his jacket, as if he had no 
time to lose. He nodded, scowling as if he would have liked to have 
eaten me. 

“ I didn’t expect to find you here, old fellow,” he stammered, with 
mock familiarity and friendliness. 

“ The pleasure is all the greater in the surprise,” said I, jokingly. 
“ I always like to do business pleasantly. You need not be uncom- 
fortable, however; there is no harm meant to you.” 

“ I am not the least uncomfortable; there is nothing I have done 
as I’m afeard of.” 

“ I’m glad to hear it, as in that case you won’t object to come with 
me.” 

“Where to?” 

“ Only as far as the stable-yard of the Royal George. You’ve got 
a friend of mine there whom I have some particular business with.” 

The thought of his two thousand pounds which he had so nearly 
regained, and which he was now so likely to lose altogether, flashed 
across his mind. I could see it by the twitch of his mouth, as he 
plucked up courage for a bold falsehood. 

“ There’s no friend of yours there that I know of, and I’m not 
going to the stable to-night again.” 

I put my hand in my pocket, and produced the prettiest pair of 
bracelets he had ever seen. I held them up to let him have a good 
look at them; and they made a decided impression. He shrank 
back as far as he could get, and stood watching me, like a whipped 
cur who would like to show his teeth and dared not. 

“Now, I mean these ornaments to be devoted to the special use 
of the friend I refer to.” was my friendly intimation; “ and I don’t 
want to have the trouble of using them until I meet him. So be 
sensible, Nick, just to oblige me.” 

“You’ve got no right to use them on me; and if it comes to that 
we are man to man, and you are an old one.” 

“Ay, but a tough one. We won’t argue that, though, because 
you’re wrong again. There are a couple of gentlemen waiting out- 
side to take part in our amusement.” 

He gave a suppressed howl, and began to wipe the perspiration 
from his brow. 


8 


170 


A HARD KNOT. 


“There’s a fortune lost,” he whined; “ the money as I’ve worked 
hard for, and come honestly by — it’s a damned shame that I should 
be the loser on his account!” 

“You’ll lose a great deal more if you don’t take my advice. 
Come now, are you to be quiet, or am I to use force?” 

“ Well, do as you like — seems to me as if I was born for nothing 
but to be kicked about by everybody.” 

Knowing Mr. Ogg’s character, and knowing that the money which 
he was about to lose was come by in some gambling transaction, I had 
not much sympathy for him ; but I did pity the hysterical struggle 
of his greed with his terror of the law. 

I went back to Susan, and bade her not say a word about this 
transaction to her mistress. Then I unlocked the door and passed 
out with the hostler. 

On the doorstep a couple of constables were waiting for us; and 
that spectacle completely disposed of any thoughts of deceiving me 
which Nick might have entertained. He became submissive as a 
lamb. 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 

MORE FROM JOHN HADDEN’s NOTE-BOOK. 

An Astounding Failure. 

I TOOK his arm and marched him to the Royal George. The men 
followed us, and my lad Willie brought up the rear. At the head 
of Buchanan Street I met one of Mactier’s men. I sent him in pur- 
suit of the captain, to tell him to join me at the stable-yard of the 
inn, or at the Central Station. 

Eveiy thing was quiet about the inn and the yard. Upon enter- 
ihg the latter I glanced towards the door of the loft. As I expect- 
ed, the light had been extinguished. 

In the centre of the yard I called a halt. 

“He will have the door fastened, I suppose,” I whispered to the 
hostler. 

“Ay, he’s got an iron bar to put across it on the inside. I had to 
search for it before I left him.” 

“Is there any way of getting out of the loft except by the door?” 

“ Only by the skylight and along the roof. He might drop on to 
the shed and then to the ground.” 

“ All right. You go up first and get him to open the door. I 
will keep behind you while my friends watch the skylight.” 

He obeyed, and sprang up the stair to the loft at once. He tapped 
at the door, and gave the word agreed on between him and Hewitt. 


A HAKD KNOT. 


171 


“ Open, the answer’s here.” 

I was beside the hostler, but in such a position that the lintel would 
conceal me on the first opening of the door. I did not care about 
giving my man the chance of pitching me over the landing. 

I waited, holding my breath for several minutes, and there was not 
tlie least sign of the door being opened. I gave Nick a nudge, and 
he repeated his summons. 

Still without effect. 

I began to suspect that there was something wrong, and I touched 
the hostler on the shoulder. 

“ Are you quite sure you have given the signal agreed upon?” I 
said, under my breath, and with as much significance as possible. 

“May I never stir if I have not done just as we arranged!” he 
answered, imitating my caution, and evidently alarmed at my sus- 
picion. 

< ‘ Try it again, then, ” 

He did so, and with no better result, although he shook the door 
and spoke loud enough to be heal'd all over the yard. 

That looked queer. I bade him procure a ladder, and he got one 
out of the shed; then one of the men mounted to the roof wliile we 
stood guard at the door. 

The constable lifted the skylight, and still there was no movement 
within the loft. The man shone his bull’s-eye down into the place, 
and presently cried out, 

“ There’s naebody here.” 

That was a startling announcement. I bade him jump in and 
open the door. Two minutes sufiiced for that, and I darted into the 
loft. I seized the bull’s-eye, and bade the man keep hold of Ogg, 
who, when I shone the light on his face, was shivering, and looking 
as much bewildered as myself. 

I searched every corner, only to convince myself that the bird had 
flown. 

I was inclined to swear and get into a passion with everybody. It 
is not easy even for the most placid temper to stand such a disap- 
pointment as this coolly, and mine is not a placid temper. To think 
that I should have my hand upon him, and that he should slip 
through my fingers in this mysterious fashion, was — well, to put it 
mildly, it was a bitter pill to swallow. 

" I sat down on a large box which was placed just beneath the sky- 
light, and endeavored to collect my senses, which were utterly con- 
fused. At the same time I stared viciously at the hostler ; and he, 
poor wretch, was the means of bringing my scattered senses to- 
gether. 

“ I see how it’s been,” he shouted. “ That box was standing in 
the corner over there, and he has drawn it over here to reach the 


173 


A HAKD KNOT. 


skylight. It’s a heavy one, and it must have taken him some time 
to shift it by himself. I don’t believe he meant to wait for me com- 
ing back at all; and like enough he has stolen a horse and is off to 
Edinburgh.” 

I jumped up. I began to understand the movement. The few 
words contained in the note to Miss Burnett required no answer. 
Hewitt had only desired to assure her of his safety and to engage 
her to give no evidence against him. He had made Ogg his mes- 
senger because he was the only man whose services were at his com- 
mand, and by getting him out of the way he was enabled to procure 
a horse. 

He had gone out by the skylight in order that the discovery of his 
absence might be delayed by the difficulty of opening the door. As 
usual, his cool calculation of possibilities and probabilities had over- 
reached us. But there was a chance yet. He could not be far on 
the road, and a man with a horse could not easily make himself in- 
visible. 

“ Come on to the stable,” I cried, and ran down the stair, followed 
by the others. 

Nick was muttering curses upon the fellow who had tricked him 
and robbed him, as he put it, and seemed now to join heartily in the 
pursuit. 

The stable-door was locked. That was another puzzling circum- 
stance; and yet, no, it was not puzzling. He had taken a horse, 
locked the door, and taken the key with him in order to put another 
obstacle in the way of discovery. 

Nick suddenly darted up to the loft again while we were trying to 
force the door. Presently he rejoined us with a bunch of keys in 
his hand. 

“ Here they are,” he said. 

I snatched them eagerly, asking: “ Where were they?” 

“ Where I left them — seemed to me as if they hadn’t been 
touched.” 

The stable-door was opened and we entered; there was nothing 
disturbed, and not one of the horses was missing! 

Now I was brought to a standstill. What was the meaning of all 
this? 

Was the man about the place still? or was it all a stratagem to 
conceal his real movement, whatever that might be? If a strata- 
gem, how was it to work? in what direction did it seem to point, 
and in what direction did it really point? 

It seemed to point to the conclusion that he had started for Edin- 
burgh on foot, as the means by which he might perform the journey 
with the least chance of attracting attention ; or that he was still 
hiding somewhere about the premises. 


A HARD KNOT. 


173 


J ust because that was the apparent conclusion, I became satisfied 
that he had neither started for Edinburgh nor was he hiding about 
the place. 

The process by which I had arrived at this conviction was very 
rapid. I had leaped to it, as it were; I had not time to argue it 
out. My chagrin and my perplexity had nervously excited me, 
and I determined to pause. I felt that a breathing-space w^as 
imperatively necessary, for I never made a step yet in such a high 
state of excitement as this, but sooner or later I found myself on the 
wrong tack. In this business I had too much at stake to risk even 
the chance of missing a step. 

Therefore I said to myself: “Now, John Hadden, be cool; don’t 
be in a hurry — be cool. There are several threads lying in the dark 
here; take time and pick them up one by one.” 

I had just settled that little matter with myself when Captain 
Mactier and three of his followers arrived. A commotion was the 
result. In his usual determined manner, the captain, instead of ac- 
cepting a plain statement of the whole business from me, which 
would have occupied about ten minutes, insisted upon investigating 
the whole affair for himself, and occupied about an hour — wasted 
about an hour, I should have said — in cross-examining everybody 
except me. 

When he had finished I volunteered an explanation. 

“ No, thank you, Hadden,” he said, sharply. “You and I have 
been on different tacks in this business all along; we’ll sail our own 
courses to the end of it. All I want from you is to see that note 
you got from Nicol Ogg.” 

After that, of course, I was not disposed to say anything. He 
knew that he had the upper hand of me, in consequence of my first 
blundering stupidity, and I felt that I deserved any reproach. Yet 
my deductions had not been altogether wrong; my great error lay 
in the haste with which I had accepted the conclusion to which 
Hewitt’s schemes had led me, and even forced me. Hence I had 
fallen into the trap, and bungled all my owm efforts by the one huge 
mistake of identifying Tavendale as the man who was wanted. 

But I don’t wish to excuse myself; all I wish to do is to save him. 

Without a word I gave Hewitt’s note to Mactier. He made a 
copy of it, and handed it back to me. 

“Now,” he said, turning to his men, “begin with the loft and 
search every corner that can hide a rat, from one end of the prem- 
ises to the other.” 

Half a dozen bulls’ -eyes were turned on, and the search com- 
menced, the captain leading it. That was precisely the first step I 
had expected him to take. I waited to see what would be the sec- 
ond. 


174 


A HARD KNOT. 


My lad Willie saw that there was something wrong with me, and' 
with an expression of — I must, I suppose, call it atfection, for which 
I had not given him credit, he, instead of joining in the search, 
seated himself on a bag of corn, and, in a drowsy, wistful way, kept 
his eyes fixed on me. I was grateful to the lad : it was something 
when at that moment everybody seemed to distrust me, and all my 
plans and calculations seemed to have so miscarried, it was pleasant 
to feel that there was one creature who still believed in me. I 
sha’n’t forget that look of confidence and faith in a hurry; it came 
just at a moment when it was needed to save me from losing heart 
altogether. 

I closed the lantern I had in my hand, and then I patted him on 
the head. 

“Why don’t you go with the others, Willie?” I said; and very 
likely my voice sounded queer, for he seemed to rouse up, and tried 
to get a glimpse of my face. 

“ What’s the use o’ gaun wi’ them?” he answered; “the chiel’s no 
here.” 

I patted him again. 

“ That’s just what I think. And where do you fancy he might 
be?” 

“ I dinna ken; but he’s no here.” 

It was ridiculous, perhaps, but I felt the greatest satisfaction and 
consolation from this confirmation of my own views. 

In half an hour the search was completed, and with the result 
Willie had foretold. The captain, however, did not appear to be in 
the least disappointed ; and, as he came into the stable, I heard him 
telling the hostler to saddle a couple of horses. 

“You have not found him?” I said mildly. 

Mactier turned his light full upon me, to see if I was sneering at 
him; and, being satisfied that I was not, he answered hastily, 

“No, I did not expect to find him here; but I like to make sure 
at every step I take.” 

“Then where do you expect he is?” 

“Where?” exclaimed Mactier, as if amazed at my stupidity. 
“He’s on the way to Edinburgh, of course; and if I don’t collar 
him on the road. I’ll have him in the city. He’s got Cargill’s order 
for two thousand ; he knows he can get that cashed in Edinburgh 
by some friend, and then he^ll make across the water. What are 
jmu going to do?” 

“ Stay here.” 

Mactier laughed, as if my decision were rather a good joke than 
the serious resolve of a man of sense. I own I was a little piqued, 
but I could not retaliate. 

“Very well,” he said, “ I won’t trouble you for an explanation of 


A HARD KNOT. 


175 


your new theory. You see, I am such a commonplace sort of fellow 
that I drive right at the natural appearance of things, and don’t 
waste time hunting for needles in haystacks.” 

He turned to his men to give them some directions, while the two 
horses which Nick had saddled were led out to the yard. The cap- 
tain had chosen one of his men to accompany him, while the others 
were despatched on various routes on foot, all to meet in Edinburgh. 

I warned Nicol Ogg not to attempt to hide himself from me, as- 
sured him that no harm would come to him if he would deal openly 
with us, and I quitted the yard with Willie just as the captain and 
his man galloped off to the main road for the capital. 

We walked slowly towards my house, and I was busy turning the 
whole case over in my mind. I don’t think I ever was so near suc- 
cess, and found myself so completely baffled. But there was no use 
wasting time regretting what could not be helped. There was a task 
before me: to discover the meaning which lay under Hewitt’s ma- 
noeuvres. That there was a meaning everything tended to con- 
vince me. 

To that task I devoted myself with as much calmness as I could 
command; and, to put a restraint upon my nervous eagerness, which 
was apt to mislead me, I was determined to set it all down in writ- 
ing. That is my usual course when I find myself excited. 

So, as soon as we had got into the house, I sent Willie to bed and 
then sat down to my note-book. 

There are three items to be considered in the attempt to form an 
estimate of Hewitt’s probable future course. 

First — Mr. Cargill’s order for two thousand pounds. 

Second — The meaning of the note to Miss Burnett. 

Third — The motive of his singular disappearance from the stable 
loft. 

That brings the points of the case together. Now, as to the first 
item. By what means did he obtain two orders for such a large 
sum from the millionaire? Was it in the character of agent for 
Tavendale, and to be used for his defence ; or was it obtained 
through Sarah’s hands? The latter is the more likely, because Mr. 
Cargill, so far as it appears to me, is scarcely sufficiently interested 
in my unfortunate prisoner to make any effort to save him which 
might compromise himself — unless he has been made aware of his 
daughter’s marriage. 

But the manner in which Hewitt got the drafts is of little conse- 
quence at present; enough that, having got one of them, he is pro- 
vided with the means of escape if he can only get it cashed. Upon 
that “if” hangs a great deal. 

It is not at all improbable that, as Mactier suspected, he might go 
to Edinburgh, intending to cash it through some friend there. It 


176 


A HATID KNOT. 


is more probable, however, haviug regard to the character of the 
man, that he will either endeavor to cash it himself at the bank here 
in Glasgow, or that he will endeavor to get Sarah to cash it for him. 
This course avoids the necessity of a third confederate; it is the 
boldest course, and is therefore least likely to be suspected aud fore- 
stalled, and therefore is the course he is most likely to adopt. 

Having the money, and knowing that it provided means of escape, 
what did his promise to pay it to Nicol Ogg signify? Plainly, noth- 
ing. lie had no intention at all of paying his creditor, and he 
made the promise merely to obtain the hostler’s services in carrying 
his note. 

That brings me to the second point. 

The note was of such a nature that it required no answer ; yet he 
made the messenger believe that an answer was required, and would 
be given. He deceived the man in this, and he had a purpose in 
doing so. That purpose was to delay his return, and to lead him 
to the belief that his absence was caused by some unexpected alarm. 
Or he believed that Nick would betray him at once to the authori- 
ties, and gave him a missive which would not convey a scrap of in- 
formation to them, while he three or four times repeated the state- 
ment that he was going to Edinburgh. 

That leads me to my third point — the meaning of his singular 
disappearance. 

Not intending to pay Nick his money, he had gone to him, frank- 
ly told him in what direction he was to take his flight, and sent him 
on an errand without any thought of waiting for his return. Nick 
having gone, Hewitt, calculating that he would betray him, secured 
the door inside, and made his escape immediately. Counting upon 
haviug been betrayed, he would credit my comrades with all the 
haste of judgment which was actually displayed, and that they 
would pursue him hot-foot in the direction he himself had indicated, 
while he quietly remained in safety behind them. 

Sum-total: hlewitt has not left the cit}^ 

That being the case, now for my course. He will attempt to cash 
the order, and in person. I must set a watch upon the bank, and 
arrest him in the act. 

Next, he will attempt to communicate with Sarah, in the hope of 
learning something of my movements, even if he be incapable, as I 
believe him to be, of making a further attempt to persuade her to 
join him in his flight. I must set a watch upon the house in Hill 
Street, and that gives me a second chance of laying hold of him. 
That is satisfactory. 

No, it is not satisfactory. What am I to do about Sarah? I 
cannot use her as a bait to catch the villain without warning her. 
It is the last piece of weakness to which I must submit on her 


A HARD KNOT. 


177 


account. I will go to her in the morning, and tell her to avoid 
him. 

Poor girl, I owe her something for the many hours which she 
made happy for me. Ah! if I had only been a younger man. 


CHAPTER XXXVII. 

SARAH BURNETT’S CONFIDANT. 

I WILL not survive the fever that is throbbing in my veins. Re- 
spect, friendship, and love itself are all sacrificed. I cannot live af- 
ter to be pointed at and scorned. 

But they shall know the worst I am, and that worst is better 
than they w^ould believe me to be until the truth is known from my- 
self. 

Dare I speak now, while he is still in danger? 

No, I cannot. He has deceived me cruelly; his hand has strick- 
en two lives — mine with the other. But I cannot be his execu- 
tioner. 

While he is still in' danger I must be silent, let them think what 
they may of me. This book alone shall be my confidant; here all 
shall be told ; and when the icy, welcome hand of death removes 
me, the truth will be known — my guilt and his guilt to the fullest. 

The pale morning light is creeping into the room. The candle is 
flickering with a feeble, sickly light; there are little piles of filmy 
ashes strewn upon the hearth — ashes of my dead love. 

These are the first things I see, the first things I feel, when I 
waken from the torpor in which I must have been sitting by the 
table here all night. The sickly candle burning in the socket re- 
minds me of the hopes that have burned out this night; the gray 
dawn with its promise of sunshine reminds me that its light is for 
others, that there is only darkness for me. These ashes! — ay, it was 
well that in the strength of frenzy I burned his letters. This morn- 
ing I would have been too weak to have destroyed these puny things 
that were as iron chains in binding me to him. These ashes are all 
that is left of many heart-links that were so precious to me, and now 
a breath scatters them. 

I am glad it has been done; had these letters remained they would 
have weakened my hand, weakened my brain; they would have 
drawn me to him in spite of myself, and made me the wife of a — 

See, I cannot write the word. But I will write it; I will think of 
it; it shall be the charm to guard me from him. 

Yes, last night I would have consented to be the wife of an assas- 
sin. 


8 * 


178 


A HARD KNOT. 


How long ago is it? Eight hours! Eight years could not have 
made me so old and weary of all that is in life. Yet I seem to rec- 
ollect nothing; I seem to feel nothing, but that there is a black, long 
waste lying -between me and last night. 

There were those few terrible moments when he stood with me 
confessing all, not bywords but by looks, that told more than words 
ever could have done; he stood with me pleading, and I yielded. 
Then came a confusion of voices, a rush of footsteps, he fled from 
me, and there was darkness. 

Then I saw Mr. Hadden bending over me, and I bade him go 
away ; I came in here and locked the door. I understood nothing 
clearly after that. In my trance I must have taken out his letters, 
and drawn the light beside me. One by one I must have destroyed 
them. Looking back I see dimly, as if it had been another person, 
myself holding the letters to the flame, and watching them burn till 
not a scrap was left. 

I pray that in burning them I have broken the last tie between us. 
The prayer must be sincere, for I feel no pain, no regret. Only a dull 
throbbing of my heart, a burning weight upon my brow, and a sense 
of weakness in my limbs. Can it be that death is already stretching 
peaceful arms towards me? I hope it may be so. Would that it 
might come before I have to meet Mr. Cargill and his daughter! 

They will be here to-day, or they will send for me. How am I to 
meet his stern contempt, and her white face, Avith its innocent won- 
der and horror? I think that will be harder to bear than his wrath. 
She Avillnot upbraid me, she will uot scorn me; she will pity me, and 
her pity will be a heavier blow than all the contumely of the world. 

I, who have caused her so much misery ; I, who was about to wound 
her gentle nature to the quick — who did wound it so; I, who made 
her believe that she was the child of shame, and who was about to 
assume the honorable position she occupies— oh! I could bear her 
scorn a hundred thousand times rather than her pity once. 

But I did not mean to thrust her from her home; I wished no 
more than to share her position Avith her, although he would have 
had me grasp and retain it all. But I can do something yet to make 
reparation. I can save her husband. 

To that task I will devote myself. Come what will, he shall not 
suffer for the crime of which he is innocent. Rather than that, I 
will myself bear witness against Laurence Hewitt. 

That must be the last resource, however, I must try to enable 
him to escape to some distant country, where he may be safe from 
pursuit, where he may lead a new life, and atone, if atonement be 
possible, for his crime. 

Mr. Hadden has been here. At first I was not inclined to see him. 


A HARD KNOT. 


179 


although he has been my best friend, ready in every difficulty to as- 
sist me with advice and money. Perhaps that is why I felt so averse 
to meeting him. I had deceived him with the rest, and when one 
feels one’s self so worthless as I do now, the aversion to meet true 
friends is natural. I desired his respect, and I had forfeited every 
claim to it. 

But Susan, who has been at the door repeatedly this morning, 
begging me, poor thing, to take some food or some tea, or to speak 
to her, insisted that I should go to him, as he had tidings of impor- 
tance for me. She threatened to run away from the house if I did 
not come out of my room, as she could not bear any longer to feel her- 
self alone in the place, with the dead body of my mother lying in 
the next room. 

I did not heed the girl’s threat, and I had not sensibility left in 
my heart to feel any gratitude for her simple sympathy. But I was 
moved by the probable nature of the subject to which i\Ir. Hadden’s 
tidings might refer. 

I rose and went to him. I expected to see him cold and angry 
with me, aware of the deception I had practised upon him. I was 
mistaken. The old kindly look was on his face, with a shadow of 
sadness that I knew was on my account. 

Yet I doubted him, afraid that he had come to question me about 
— why does it cost me so much pain to write the name? — Laurence 
Hewitt. 

At sight of me he started, made a quick step towards me, and then 
halted, his hands playing nervously with his hat and staff, and an 
expression of fright on his face. 

I did not speak. He had not held out his hand to me; he had 
paused in advancing to me; he had shrunk from touching me. 

Again I wronged him. After trying to speak, and failing, he 
came to my side and gently grasped my hand. It was a warm, 
kindly grasp, and yet so gentle that I felt it was the touch of a friend 
who would not desert me altogether in my shame. 

There was a long, square mirror above the mantelpiece. He drew 
me to the hearth, and made me look in the mirror. 

I understood then why he had started and seemed so much agi- 
tated. 

My eyes were sunken, and were encircled by deep blue lines. My 
cheeks seemed to have grown hollow and my brow furrowed since 
last night. My lips were blue, and compressed with a spasmodic 
tightness; my hair, jet and glossy before, was now dry and matted, 
falling over my browi and temples, and was streaked with gray. 

It was the haggard face of an old woman who had suffered years 
of anguish; and one night had wrought this change. 

I did not marvel at his surprise— I did not marvel at his com- 


180 


A HARD KNOT. 


passion and agitation. But they afforded me the first thrill of sen- 
sibility I had experienced since Laurence started from my side — a 
hunted criminal. The feeling was one of pain; not at the change 
in my appearance. God knows, whatever woman’s vanity had been 
in my nature before, there was none left now. 

The pain was at the recognition of his fidelity; that, seeing me as 
I was, knowing me to be what I am, he could still entertain a thought 
for me other than that of contemptuous pity. 

After the long period of dull inanimation through which I had 
passed any feeling would have been a relief; and this was a relief 
as intense as that of one who suddenly recovers from paralysis. 

Yet I had not power to express this feeling; not a feature moved 
to show that his sympathy had touched me. Coldly and steadily as 
an automaton I turned from the glass and fixed my gaze on him. 


CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

THE INTERVIEW. 

He misinterpreted my expression. He thought I doubted the mo- 
tive of his visit still, when all doubt had been dispelled. 

He spoke with nervous haste. 

“ I do not come to question you,” he said; “I come to warn you.” 

I tried to say “Thank you,” but my tongue was parched and 
would not move. I bowed my head, and he went on : 

“This is no time for explanations. I seek none, and do not mean 
to give any. I am here at this early hour to warn you.” 

He seemed to expect me to say something at this repetition of the 
purpose of his visit, and began again to handle his staff nervously. 

I could only stare at him dumbly, although I saw that he Was be- 
coming excited and troubled by my silence. 

“This house is watched, and will be watched for days to come,” 
he proceeded, abruptly. 

“Yes,” I managed to say, slowly; but although all my strength 
was thrown into the effort my voice did not rise above a whisper. 

“My warning is, then, that you should hold no communication, 
by post or messenger, with anybody who— who— ” he stammered, in 
the difficulty he felt of giving his warning without recalling my dis- 
grace; “that is, in fact, with anybody who maybe desirous of avoid- 
ing acquaintances.” 

He stopped and looked at me, waiting for my reply. 

“Thank you,” I said, in the same cold whisper as before. 

He seemed to be more than ever astonished by my coldness, and 
he had reason to be so, for he could not kn'ow the numbness which 


A HARD KNOT. 


181 


overpowered me, and demanded so great an effort to overcome, even 
for the little I had said. 

He began to move towards the door nervously. 

“I know you are in pain, and I will not add to it by remaining 
with you any longer,” he continued. “ I have given you the warn- 
ing. You know its importance; and I only ask you to remember 
by and by that they are the only words I have ever spoken which 
could be construed by my worst enemy into a betrayal of my 
duty. Remember that; try to think how much it has cost me to 
speak them for your sake, and blame me as little as you can for 
what will happen by and by.” 

“What will happen by and by!” How the words echoed and rang 
in my brain 1 I knew — I knew his meaning, and his grave tone of 
conviction smote me like an iron rod till my body shook. 

He was at the door when I called to him, 

“Mr. Hadden — ” 

My voice sounded so harsh and sharp that it startled myself as 
well as my friend. 

He returned to me quickly, dropping his hat and staff on the 
table. 

“Miss Burnett — Sarah,” he cried excitedly, “this will kill you!” 

He took my hand, attempting to lead me to a chair; but 1 did not 
move, and he desisted. He continued to hold my hand, and I was 
dimly conscious that his hand trembled on mine. 

I stood there and spoke, but the voice and words were like those 
of another person to whom I was listening. I seemed to be gazing 
through a white mist into a chaos, and I had only the consciousness 
of one in a trance of what I said. 

“You see that my manner is strange. I am aware of that, and 
yet have no power to control it. You think me ungrateful for the 
sacrifice you are making in my behalf. But I am not ungrateful; 
oh, sir, I am bitterly mindful of all I owe you for this, and many, 
many kindnesses I have never deserved from you.” 

“ Hush, hush, Sarah!” he interrupted, nervously shaking my hand 
and trying to stop me; “don’t speak of that, my poor lassie — I may 
call you by the old pet names still, may I not? There is nobody else 
to call you by them now.” 

I looked at him ; vaguely I saw his features through the mist 
that hung over my eyes. I would have given my life if I could 
liave felt myself worthy of that earnest look of regard he had fixed 
upon me. 

“ Can you call me by them still?” 

“ If you will let me.” 

“Do you know everything?” 

“ Everything— more than you know yourself yet, I hope.” 


183 


A HARD KNOT. 


I shaded my eyes and tried to clear the mist from them that I 
might see him better, while my words were pronounced firmly, so 
that I might remove any misapprehension of my guilt he might be 
laboring under. 

“You cannot know more than I do now.” 

“No matter. I am sorry — but no matter. That cannot change 
me. You could not prevent it,” 

“I could have prevented it.” 

“I say you could not prevent it; and even if you could, I say 
again, no matter.” 

“You know that I have deceived you?” 

“Yes.” 

“You know that I may have to answer for my share of what has 
happened in the position of a criminal?” 

He was frightened at that; but presently his fright appeared to 
have reference rather to my mental state than to the prospect I had 
suggested. 

“You have been excited and tried be3"ond j^our strength, Sarah,” 
he said kindly; “you have had no rest, and I don’t wonder that 
3’our overtaxed brain takes a morbid view of your position. The 
thing you have hinted at will never occur.” 

I wish it had been possible to show him my gratitude for the con- 
solation he offered me. But a morbid fiend possessed me. 

“I will owe my safety to the mercy of those I have wronged; 
but even then I cannot escape the shame that every honest tongue 
will cast at me.” 

That was my answer, and although I saw it pained him I could 
not check myself. He was patient with me. 

“You must lie down and rest, Sarah, my lassie; and if it will 
give you any comfort to know it, be satisfied that, no matter what 
"the worst may be that comes to you, my hand will be ready to help 
you to bear it. When everybody turns against you, that’s just the 
time you will find me nearest you. Thunder ! but if I was a younger 
man that’s just the time I w^ould marry you!” 

“Marry me?” 

I sickened at the thought of any man’s life being tied to such a 
wretched wreck as mine. 

I drew my hand from him and covered mj" face ; not to hide tears 
or blushes — I had none — but t9 compress my brow, which was swell- 
ing and throbbing as if it would burst with the thought, the treacher- 
ous thought, which his self-sacrificing friendship had suggested to me. 

But I was not so base as not to wince at the proposition I was 
about to make. There was still good enough left in my nature to 
enable me to respect truth and honor in whatever form they came, 
and I hesitated long before I spoke. 


A HARD KNOT. 


183 


Perhaps I should not have spoken, but I desired the end so much 
that any sophistry sufficed to justify me to myself; and the sophistry 
I used now was the pitiful one that in the escape of Laurence time 
was afforded him for repentance, and no one could he harmed by 
granting that mercy. 

“Am I to go now, Sarah?” he said, stretching his hand towards 
his hat, and apparently thinking his vehemence had offended me; 
“ or do you wish mo to stay? Have you anything to tell me? You 
won’t mind the ridiculous observation I made just now. You know 
how long I have looked upon you as a child of my own.” 

‘ ‘ Do not speak that way, sir. It is I who should be on my knees 
at your feet begging your forgiveness, not you who should be ad- 
dressing me as one deserving a single kindly thought.” 

“Now, now, don’t say anything more about that. Just tell me 
if there is anything I can do for you, and let me go.” 

With an angry impulse to subdue every qualm of conscience I 
answered : 

“ There is something you can do for me.” 

“Well, what is it— why do you stop?” 

“ Because it is so difficult to tell you the service I would ask.” 

“ That’s unkind — to have any such feeling with me.” 

“You will not think so when j^ou know what it is.” 

“I cannot think of anything that I would not do for your sake 
if it would only give you relief,” he said earnestly. 

“You can relieve me. Oh, if you would only do this service for 
me, you would not only make me your debtor for life — for that I 
am already — but you would bind every thought and action of my 
future to you ! There is no drudgery, no task or shame that I would 
not submit to for your sake, if you will only consent to help me 
now.” 

He looked bewildered at first, and then he shook his head gravely. 

“There is no service in my power that can earn such devotion. 
But anything I can do I will do for no other reward than the satis- 
faction of knowing that it helps you.” 

“ I will tell you. I know that you are a detective.” 

“ That I suspected. When did you discover my profession?” 

“Four days ago. But a fortnight ago I knew that you were con- 
nected with the law, although in what capacity I did not then under- 
stand.” 

“And it was in consequence of knowing that, that you first laid 
before me Mr. Cargill’s letters?” 

I saw that his face was assuming a different aspect, almost a stern 
aspect, and his eyes were fixed upon me with a penetrating gaze. 
But I had determined to conceal nothing from him, and I replied 
steadily : 


184 


A HARD KNOT. 


“ It was.” 

“You were told to lay them before me?” 

“Yes.” 

“That will do. I must not question you further, because I am 
so involved that all you say I must use for a purpose which will not 
please you. I did not mean to ask you so much as I have done, but 
you see my tongue slips, and the habit of prying into everything is 
too strong for me. Don’t give me another chance of putting a 
question. Let me know what you want at once.” 

I clinched my hands, and in desperation found the words that were 
so hard to speak. 

“You are in pursuit of Laurence Hewitt — desist from the pur- 
suit. There is no man he fears except you — let him escape; and 
when he is beyond his present danger do with me what you will.” 

I expected him to be indignant at the proposition at first, and I 
had hoped by my prayers to win his consent. But he showed neither 
anger nor surprise. He patted me pityingly upon the shoulder, as 
if I had been a child, and had hurt myself. 

“Poor lassie, poor lassie!” he said consolingly. “I knew you 
would be faithful under any circumstances, even to such a — well, 
we won’t say what. I wish I could have helped you, but it is im- 
possible.” 

I could not argue with him when he spoke in this way; I could 
only echo that last word, “impossible.” 

“ Yes, impossible,” he went on; “by my means an innocent man 
has been placed in peril of his life, by my means he must be res- 
cued.” 

“But by rescuing him is it necessary that the other should take 
his place?” 

“It is necessary.” 

“Even when I place in your hands proofs sufficient to remove 
every stain and suspicion from Tavendale?” 

“ Do not tempt me. I see only one course clear and straight be- 
fore me. Duty and justice both compel me to follow it.” 

“Then I must stand alone to help him.” 

“ For Heaven’s sake,” he cried, in agitation, “ do not make your 
position worse than it is already, by attempting to help that wretch ! 
— there, I should not have said that to you. But remember, every 
step you take is watched, and that any effort you make to assist him 
will be the means of delivering him into the hands of justice. Will 
you promise me to do nothing for him?” 

“ I cannot promise you that.” 

“You will forgive me for refusing to assist you in this.” * - 

“I asked you to do an act of injustice to others, an act of injus- 
tice to yom-self . I see and know that your refusal has distressed you. 


A HARD KNOT. 


185 


and it is I who crave your pardon for making the request. I know 
that you pity me, I know that you have some regard for me; and 
you will make allowances for the miserable conduct into which my 
own guilt and the feelings I once entertained for him forced me.” 

“Then you don’t care for him now? You would not go with 
him if he was here begging you to go, and had a clear path before 
him?” 

I looked at him, wondering that he could have imagined it possible 
for me to link myself to Laurence Hewitt after I had had time to 
realize the full extent of his crime. He understood me, and tried to 
prevent me speaking. 

“Don’t say a word,” he cried; “you can’t guess what a joy you 
have given me. You have lifted a load as heavy as Nelson’s monu- 
ment from my shoulders. ” 

“But you must hear me — you must understand me. Although 
every feeling of respect and liking for him is crushed out from my 
heart, still the memory of what he was to me compels me to use 
what power I have left in trying to aid his escape.” 

“I see it is no use attempting to persuade you to what I believe 
to be the proper course. I know how positive you are, I see how 
faithful you can be, and I can only wish that such a good heart had 
been given to one who valued it.” 

“You are going, shall I see you again?” 

“Not until this business is over, or until you have forsaken every 
thought of assisting him.” 

“You are angry with me.” 

“No, I am very sorry for you. Remember what I said to you: 
and one thing more — you will likely have a visit from Captain 
Mactier; be careful in speaking to him. Should any event of im- 
portance occur which places you in a difficulty, send for me. Good- 
b3"e, Sarah — be careful.” 

There was a tenderness in his manner as he pressed my hand 
which was different in some strange way from what it used to be, 
eccentrically affectionate as it had always been. He went away, and 
I felt that I had parted with my best friend — my only friend. 

My conversation with Mr. Hadden has had a good effect upon 
me. The blood seems to be circulating more freely through my 
body; the feeling of congestion in the brain is less severe; I see 
more clearly, and feel readier for the task before me. 

I do not understand why this interview produced such an effect, 
since the result has been to leave me without even the hope of one 
friend to help me in the course I have determined upon. Perhaps 
it is because his kindness has made me feel that there is one person 
in the world who, happen what may, will try to understand me, and 
in understanding me will blame my conduct less. 


186 


A HARD KNOT. 


I have bathed my head with cold water, and taken some of the tea 
which Susan has been forcing upon me. They used to tell me that 
I was a woman of strong nerve, and I am conscious now that I must 
have been so before last night. I feel as if something of the old 
strength had returned to me, for the spirit of determination which 
Laurence used to praise so much is rising within me, and I set m}^ 
face resolutely to meet the difficulties that lie in my path, and to do 
wffiat I conceive to be my duty. 

First, then, when he calls upon me for help I must be ready. He 
has no one else whom he can trust, and I cannot forsake him. 

I must not move from the house, I must wait. While waiting I 
must prepare for that reparation which I have resolved upon mak- 
ing to Miss Cargill and her father — I dare not call him mine now. 
That is the highest and chief duty for which life is valuable to me 
still. 

I wull set down everything here, disguising nothing, hiding noth- 
ing, baring my heart and thought as truly as if I stood before the 
great judgment-seat. 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 

TO KATHERINE CARGILL, OF MAVISBANK, FROM SARAH BURNETT. 

The proper beginning of my confession is with the day on which 
I first encountered Laurence Hewitt. He was a clerk in the office 
of the agents through whom my mother’s allowance was paid. 

One day, four years ago, my mother required me to go to the 
office to obtain an advance upon her allowance. She required it 
immediately to pay a creditor — a draper — who had become importu- 
nate, and refused to wait for payment longer than he had already 
done. The amount had been due to him for twelve months, and he 
threatened to poind and sell our furniture if the account were not 
settled on the following morning. 

What a petty, what a contemptible beginning to such a dark 
tragedy! You, Katherine Cargill, the daughter of a millionaire, who 
have never known any need of money that could not be satisfied 
with a single word, how can I hope to make you feel the bitter 
shame, the cruel humiliation, under which a proud nature smarts 
when a tradesman has to become a dun? 

Mine was a proud nature, and the trials which my mother’s care- 
lessness about money brought upon us — petty as they may appear 
to you — tortured me and hardened me. 

They might have had a different effect if I had had a different 
training; but my mother was a vain woman, and, till within three 


A HARD KNOT. 


187 


months of her death, she seemed to he indifferent to everything ex- 
cept dress. She did not care at what sacrifice or at what suffering 
to others this vanity was gratified, if it was gratified. The conse- 
quence of this was that as long as I can remember we were always 
in debt, and always in dread that every knock at the door was another 
creditor come to demand his due. 

Keenly I suffered that dread when I came, at too early an age, to 
understand our position; my mother became so accustomed to be 
asked for money which she had not got to give that she was in- 
different. I was too proud ever to become so, and the daily frets to 
which I was compelled to submit on this account made me hate the 
rich because they were rich. 

I tried to reduce our expenses in everyway that lay in my power; 
but, from the moment when I took charge of the house until now, 
I have never known what it was to feel secure from the insults of 
impatient creditors. 

I mention all this in the hope that it may in some degree explain 
the deformity of my nature, and that it may help you to understand 
the high appreciation and value I placed on the service rendered me 
on the day when I went to the office of my mother’s agents for the 
advance of her allowance. 

Both the principals of the firm were from home; one would not 
return for three days, the other not for a week, and on the next day 
our creditor would fulfil his threat. 

Mr. Hewitt was the managing clerk. He observed my distress, 
and, probably guessing the cause, he asked me to speak with him in 
his private room. There he begged me to speak freely and explain 
everything. 

I did so, and he took upon himself the responsibility of making 
the required advance. 

You can only understand my gratitude for this act of kindness if 
you understand the extent of the relief it gave me. I was capable 
of gratitude then, and the very hardness of my heart, which rendered 
it so difficult to reach, made my respect for him the stronger. 

After that, instead of the junior clerk who had formerly called 
every quarter with my mother’s allowance, Mr. Hewitt came himself. 
He was made welcome by me; he was welcomed also by my mother, 
for he had some pretensions to manner and appearance which pleased 
her. Besides, he endeavored to please her by paying her the in- 
numerable little attentions which she was so eager to receive, and to 
which she had been for some time a stranger. 

His visits soon became frequent, and, with those of another friend, 
Mr. John Hadden, formed the one pleasure of my dull, hopeless life. 

Before we had known each other many months he asked me to 
be his wife. He told me frankly that he was penniless ; that he had 


188 


A HAKD KNOT. 


worked his own way to what little position he had; and that, as in 
the past, so in the future, he had nothing save his own exertions to 
depend upon for success. 

I accepted him, and was proud of him, because he had been so 
frank, and because, with opportunities to make his marriage a step 
towards his advancement, he preferred to trust to his own labor, and 
to take a wife without position or money. 

I have said that nothing shall be disguised here; and although I 
shrink from saying it now, in view of what has since occurred, I will 
say it^ — I loved him with a passion that would have hesitated at no 
sin, no shame, for his sake. God knows how wretchedly I have 
proved the depth of that passion. 

I told him everything then within my knowledge of my mother’s 
affairs and of my own prospects. They were poor enough ; but he 
was generous, and told me that he valued my strong affection 
and resolute spirit more than all the wealth in the city. They were 
things, he said, to help a man in the world if he was only willing to 
work. Surely such words as these gave me reason to be proud of him. 

He explained to me that he was anxious to start in business on his 
own account; that, from the favor shown to him by a number of 
gentlemen, he believed he could form an extensive and profitable 
connection if he had only the means to take an office and to support 
himself for six or nine months. We discussed the matter again and 
again without seeing any immediate prospect of realizing our wishes 
in this respect. 

I had no money, and it was impossible to touch my mother’s al- 
lowance, because that was already mortgaged for the necessities of 
the house. His salary was so small that it had been barely sufficient 
to enable him to maintain the appearance necessary to his position. 
So he had been unable to save anything, and he did not know any 
one from whom he could venture to ask the loan of the sum he re- 
quired, namely, one hundred and fifty pounds. 

I have mentioned another friend who was frequently at our house, 
Mr. Hadden. He w^as an old gentleman without any relations. His 
habits w'ere eccentric, but his heart w^as and is a good, kind one. He 
had taken a strong liking to me, and with the watchfulness of a 
tender father noted my every whim, and endeavored to check it 
when the whim was a wrong one, and to gratify it whenever it 
seemed right. 

I need not delay here in trying to explain the many little ways in 
which Mr. Hadden displayed his affection for me. The advice and 
assistance which I could not obtain from my mother I learned to 
seek from him. I learned to trust him, and until after I had promised 
to become the wife of Laurence Hewitt I do not think that I had 
hidden a thought or action of my life from him. 


A HARD KNOT. 


189 


I do not know yet why I fancied that the revelation of my be- 
trothal would pain him, and shrank from confessing it to him. But 
at last I did confess it to him; and although at first he seemed 
startled and troubled by the confession, he presently showed himself 
eager to serve me and ray future husband. 

He advanced the money required, and Mr. Hewitt started in busi- 
ness on his own account. The calculations Laurence made were 
speedily confirmed ; and he soon began to obtain a valuable practice. 
But, until his position became assured, and his debt to Mr. Hadden 
was paid, by his desire our marriage was from time to time post- 
poned. 

I never doubted his reasons for this postponement ; I never doubted 
that it was in consideration of my comfort that he wished to make 
his position sure before we married. There were few people for 
whom I cared; my life had been an isolated one; and when I did 
love, I gave my whole heart and faith. That was why I submitted 
blindly to his arguments, never thinking what evil results this delay 
might produce. So convinced was I that this delay was necessary, 
that latterly, when he urged me to throw prudence to the wind and 
become his wife, I refused. 

Meanwhile, he maintained a position of high respectability, and 
obtained a place in the best society in the city. That was my chief 
reason for now desiring delay on my part ; for I saw, or imagined I 
saw, that our marriage would interfere with his advancement. 

You will say that this was a cold, a callous, and a worldly view to 
take of such a tie. No doubt it was; and no doubt my own nature 
was to blame for it in the first instance; but something of the error 
is attributable to his teachings. Remember how I loved him, and 
you will understand how my whole mind became absorbed in him. 
Day after day I listened to his bitter philosophy, which made money 
the idol of the world, and goodness nothing. Day after day he 
would point out to me how men and women, ignorant and educated, 
bowed down before wealth; how they grovelled and humiliated 
themselves to obtain it; how they courted and fawned upon those 
who possessed it ; how the rich man was a king among his fellows, 
while the good man was thrust aside and uncared for. 

My own experience had been of such a kind as to make me a ready 
pupil to such teachings. My knowledge of life had been obtained 
among its pettiest cares, with little friendship or kindness to lighten 
it, and give my mind breadth. My thought and sight seemed to 
contract, and I saw the world through one light. I learned to sur- 
pass my teacher in cynicism and contempt for the creatures about me. 

1 craved for wealth and for position, not for any good that they 
might enable me to do, but for the power they would give to spurn 
those who now seemed to spurn me because of my poverty. 


190 


A HARD KNOT. 


It was in this diseased state of mind that I made the discovery of 
the letters written by Mr, Cargill, which led me to the belief that I 
■was his legitimate daughter, while 5^ou were enjoying all the ad- 
vantages of the position which was really mine. 

I made the discovery exactly in the manner related to Mr. Had- 
den; and my first feeling on making it was one of delirious joy. 
The wealth, the power, for which I yearned -was within my grasp. I 
desired the position w^hich the letters indicated as mine too much to 
hesitate for an instant in giving them entire credence. They seemed 
to offer me all that I had most desired; huge riches for myself and 
Laurence, riches that would make us envied and adulated by the 
cringing world. 

No more anxious days and nights about the miserable expenses of 
our housekeeping; no more pinching and scraping to maintain an 
appearance of respectability; no more desires to be stifled and pleas- 
ures to be denied, 

I did not think of the misery which my discovery would bring 
upon you, or the shame it would entail upon my father. I thought 
only of myself and Laurence. 

With the suspicious greed of a miser who fears to display his 
wealth lest it should be stolen from him, I concealed my discovery 
from my mother until I had seen Mr. Hewitt. 

I took the letters and I went with them to his office. His delight 
was not less than mine, but it w^as calmer and more calculating. 
After he had read them carefully through, and made numerous 
notes of the principal letters and of the results of his perusal of 
them, lie folded them up carefully again, and handed them back 
to me. 

He was pale and excited, although he preserved the utmost calm- 
ness of manner, I observed then, as I had repeatedly observed be- 
fore, that when he w^as most excited his manner was most calm and 
deliberate. 

“ Treasure these,” he said; “ they are your title-deeds to a mill- 
ion,” 

He spoke to me with the quiet politeness and reserve wdth which 
he might have addressed an ordinary client. I w^as surprised and a 
little dismayed, for, selfish as I w^as, I had no thought for myself in 
wdiich he did not fully share. I had gone to him expecting to be 
clasped in his arms, in the great joy of knowing that all our diffi- 
culties were removed, that the fpture was clear before us, and that 
in marrying me he gained everything that I most desired for him. 

And now, when he saw it all he stood coldly there, wuthout even 
extending his hand to say that he was glad our course w^as clear. 

“Is that all you have to say?” I asked. “Do you not see, can 
you not feel, can you not share my delight in this?” 


A HARD KNOT. 


191 


His face seemed to brighten, but he compressed his lips as if he 
were restraining some impulse. 

“ I do share your delight; I congratulate you most sincerely.” 

“Congratulate me most sincerely, Laurence?” I cried. “Why 
are you so cold? Do you not see that this* good-fortune makes me 
glad for your sake more than my own?” 

“Is that true?” he said eagerly, holding his breath and bending 
towards me to scan my face the more closely. 

Something chilled me; it seemed as if my good-fortune were to 
cost me his love, and for the moment I felt ready to cast my title- 
deeds, as he called them, into the tire. It was so strange, it was so 
cruel, that he should doubt my fidelity to him, as I saw he was doing 
by the keen, inquiring gaze he fixed upon me. That was the first 
time I had ever questioned the power of wealth. 

I bent my head, and laid the letters down upon the table. 

“ Have I done any tiling to offend you?” I asked. 

He saw that I was pained; he advanced to me and took my hand. 

“Offend me? — you could not do that even if you tried. There is 
nothing in your power to do that can make me forget how much 
I owe you — not even if you came to me now to tell me that our en- 
gagement is at an end. ” 

I looked up to him quickly and angrily. 

“ Do you suspect that?” 

“ I suspect nothing,” he replied quietly; “ but when you engaged 
yourself to me I was a struggling man, and you my equal, because 
you had little more than myself. My position remains the same; 
yours is altogether changed, and — ” 

“And you doubted me. You thought that this change in my 
fortune would change my affection too. I have not deserved that 
suspicion from you.” 

“You mistake me, Sarah,” he said, in a low tone, but still main- 
taining an air of provoking distance. “I know your headstrong 
nature and its generous impulses. You do not see the full impor- 
tance of this discovery as I see it. You do not see that in becoming 
recognized as the daughter of Mr. Cargill you must consult his 
wishes in choosing a husband. ” 

“ He has never done anything to deserve the right to be consulted 
in such a matter. He has done everything to permit me to demand 
and to insist that my wishes alone shall be considered in this. And 
whether he had the right or not I would not alter, even if my de- 
cision were to bar me from my just claims.” 

“You thfnk so now; but when you have had time to reflect, and 
to realize the change fully, you will see that you owe yourself some 
consideration.” 

I was annoyed with him, and I spoke petulantly. 


192 


A HARD KNOT. 


“Then you wish our engagement to be broken off?” 

“Sarah!” 

The tone and look rebuked me. 

“If it is not that you mean, then what is it ?” 

“I mean nothing more than this, that I would think it a natural 
desire for you to wish our engagement cancelled now. On my part, 
what seemed like doubt of you is a proof of how dearly I prize 
you. For although to lose you would be the wreck of every hope 
and chance for me in life, I wish to offer you the opportunity of 
releasing yourself.” 

“And I refuse to be released,” I cried passionately. 

He clasped me to his breast then, and I was assured that he loved 
me. More, I was assured that there was something else than money 
worth living for. 

“My own darling,” he said, “if you could only guess the agony 
I was suffering just now when I seemed to you so cold and callous ; 
if you could only guess the relief and gladness you have given me, 
you would know how much dearer you are to me than anything 
the world can offer. ” 

“The world offers you riches,” I said joyfully, “and you will not 
refuse them because they are offered through me ?” 

“ I will accept them because they are offered through you. And 
now sit down, and we will consider how we shall proceed in the 
business. It is one thing to have the title to a fortune, it is quite 
another thing to obtain the acknowledgment of that title.” 

He called to the boy in the outer room to tell any one who called 
that he was particularly engaged, and could not be seen for an hour 
at least. Then he locked the door, and seated himself by his table. 
He had placed a chair for me close to his own. 

He took up the sheet of paper upon which he had written his notes 
of the letters. 

“Now,” he began, “I am going to say something which will 
perhaps dishearten you; but take courage, we have everything in 
our favor. These letters clearly prove to my mind that you are the 
legitimate daughter of Robert Cargill of Mavisbank. But the case 
will no doubt go into court, and there the proof will be insufficient.” 

“How ? — do you not say it is clear?” 

‘ ‘ To you and to me, yes, but not in the eyes of the law. To 
satisfy the law we must be able to prove that the change of children 
took place as described in these letters ; and, next, we must have 
conclusive proof that you are the child of Mrs. Cargill, who was 
changed for the child of Mrs. Burnett. That will be ra'ther a diffi- 
cult matter after the lapse of so many years,” 

‘ ‘ But Mrs. Burnett will not refuse to give evidence -when she learns 
that the truth is known. ” 


A HARD KNOT. 


193 






“Now, Sarah, you must look at this matter with the cold and 
calculating eye of a stranger. What did Mrs. Burnett consent to 
part with her own child for at its birth?” 

“ To secure her the fortune and position which are mine by right.” 

“Exactly so. Yet Mrs. Burnett is not a very wicked or bad- 
hearted woman. She has never been very unkind to you; she has 
never done anything to lead you to suspect her relationship to you.” 

“ Never.” 

“And you can see from these letters that it cost her some grief to 
consent to the arrangement which separated her from her own child, 
notwithstanding the great advantage her child was to obtain.” 

“Yes, I observed that; but she did consent at last.” 

“ Exactly so. And having consented, having overcome the first 
yearnings of a mother, she took you to her arms, and resolutely set 
herself to the task of concealing the fraud which had been prac- 
tised upon you. Now, having succeeded in concealing it all these 
years, do you think it is probable or even possible that she will turn 
round and acknowledge the truth willingly when she knows that it 
will ruin her daughter’s prospects ? — prospects to which she has 
become accustomed — deprive her of fortune, of her grand home, 
and disgrace her in the eyes of the many who respect and pay her 
homage now. Do you think a mother who has sacrificed so much, 
and who has been faithful to her sacrifice so long, will do that?” 

‘ ‘ But she must do it — she cannot help herself ; we have the 
proofs.” 

“Wrong again, Sarah. We have not the proofs; we have only 
a part of them. A considerable part, certainly, but utterly useless 
unless we can obtain the rest. You seb, I am separating your inter- 
ests and my own entirely from this case, and reviewing it in all its 
bearings just as I would that of an ordinary client.” 

“But you seem almost as if you doubted the truth yourself,” I 
said, for his arguments made me uneasy. 

“No, no, I do not doubt at all myself; but as a lawyer I doubt 
everything, and you will see the importance of doing so presently.” 

He seemed so clear-sighted and wise that, while he seemed to be 
undermining my great hopes, I felt prouder of him than ever. I rest- 
ed my hand on his arm, and looked at him trustfully. 

He appreciated this mark <y£ confidence, for he smiled as lie pro- 
ceeded in the same calm, searching tone as before. 

“ There is another phase of the question to be considered. Ad- 
mitting the highly improbable event of Mrs. Burnett confessing the 
truth, even that would not be enough to establish your claim. You 
see by these letters that Mr. Cargill has quarrelled with her, and for 
years apparently has held no direct communication with her. Now, 
remember his high position, the respect and influence he possesses, 

9 


194 


A HARD KNOT. 


and, above all, the power his wealth gives him. Remember, too, 
that the daughter whom he has placed in the position of his heiress, 
and for whom, no doubt, he entertains some atfection, has never been 
suspected to be other than she appears. Yl ell, suppose I, a young 
and struggling lawyer, suddenly produce you as his legitimate heir- 
ess, and advance these letters and Mrs, Burnett in proof of the 
claim, what do you think wo\iId be the result?” 

“I do not know.” 

“Why, that you and I would be denounced as impostors, and 
most likely would be consigned to prison for a year or two to re- 
pent our folly and the insult we offered to a man of his position.” 

He paused, as if to observe the effect of his words. I was dismayed 
enough, but, although the whole prospect seemed to darken before 
me, and I could see.no way through it, I did not lose heart. I felt 
a stern resolve rising within me, and the greater the obstacles to be en- 
countered, the greater became my determination to overcome them, 

“Then, is the discovery of no value? is it impossible to prove 
the truth ?” 

“No, not impossible; only difficult. You will see by the letter 
dated October that the nurse, Jean Gorbal, is in possession of certain 
letters which Mr. Cargill endeavored to obtain from her. She re- 
fused to part with them, and I believe that these letters and her 
evidence would establish your claim in spite of the denial of Mrs, 
Burnett and Mr. Cargill. But, indeed, I do not think they would at- 
tempt to deny it if we had that proof on our side, ” 

“Then I will see Jean Gorbal at once,” I exclaimed, partly rising 
from my seat. 

But he gently restrained me. 

“You must be calm, Sarah, if we are to succeed. You know 
this woman ?” 

“Yes.” 

“ Where does she live?” 

“ At Port-Dundas.” 

“What sort of a woman is she?” 

“ Somewhat vulgar and inclined to drink.” 

“Is she friendly to you?” 

“I think so. Until two years ago, I have not seen her since I was 
a child. But since she came to live at Port-Dundas I have met her 
several times, and she has always been most kind to me.” 

“ Has she ever given any hint that you could associate with this 
discovery ?” 

“Ido not recollect— and yet— yes, I remember now that twice after 
she had been drinking she has said that if she and Mrs. Burnett liked 
I might be in a very different position from my present one. I 
understand what she meant now.” 


A HARD KNOT. 195 

“Yes, it is quite clear,” he said slowly, and resting his brow on 
his hand. 

“ I will go to her — I am sure she will help me.” 

“Don’t stir, you cannot be sure of any one when their interests 
are concerned. It is a delicate and a dangerous matter we have in 
hand ; the result is a fortune, or maybe hopeless disgrace to both of 
us, and to all who aid us. This woman, Jean Gorbal, is no doubt . 
well paid for her silence, and she will not readily consent to risk 
the loss of her present comforts to serve you or anybody, no matter 
what inducements we offer. ” 

“You are too suspicious, Laurence.” 

“ No, I am only careful for your sake and for my own. Before 
I move a step in this affair you must pledge yourself to be guided 
entirely by my counsels in every word you speak — ay, in every 
thought you think, if that be possible.” 

“Who else is there whose counsel 3 1 would follow?” 

“Mr. Hadden’s, for instance, or your own impulses. Do you 
pledge yourself?” 

“Ido.” 

“ That you will speak or be silent as I direct?” 

“ In everything I promise to obey you, Laurence.” 

He pressed my hand warmly, and smiled in admiration of my 
submission, 

“I accept this,” he said softly, “as another proof of your love. 
Now, I will show you how I mean to proceed,” 


CHAPTEIi XL. 

THE CHART LAID DOWN. 

This interview is impressed upon my memory with the indelible 
lines which anguish makes. It was the first step to the dark end 
which has been reached, and every word, every look, recurs to me 
now with the vividness of lightning in a black midnight. I surren- 
dered myself utterly to his control; I kept my pledge and obeyed 
him, even when I felt that we were doing wrong. 

I wish you, Miss Cargill, to know all this in detail, because I know 
that you, who love Mr. Tavendale, will understand me and appor- 
tion my share of the guilt justly. 

I waited patiently until Mr. Hewitt had hurriedly glanced over 
his notes of the case again. Then he said gravely: 

“ Our course (S at present a simple one. You must permit me to 
see Mrs. Burnett alone, in the first instance, as I may be better able 
to get the truth from her by surprise when you are absent than if 


196 


A HARD KNOT. 


you were with us. At the same time, I confess that I have little 
hope of obtaining the truth from her either way, and you must pre- 
pare yourself for her most vehement denial of it.”’ 

“I am prepared for that; it is natural for her to wish to conceal 
the fraud more than ever now when its revelation would cause her 
child so much trouble.” 

* “Exactly so; and in the next place I must see Jean Gorbal. I 
anticipate less difiiculty with her, because she may be bribed. The 
only question is how to present the matter to her so as to satisfy her 
that she will gain more by speaking out than by holding her 
tongue. ” 

‘ ‘ She will consent, for she is not restrained by the same powerful 
motive which holds Mrs. Burnett in check. ” 

“We will see ; it is not easy to say how such a woman may act. 
We must guard every step we take, for we have a millionaire for 
an opponent.” 

“But we have truth on our side.” 

‘ ‘ A very valuable assistant, no doubt, but not always a successful 
one. However, if we can only get possession of the letters Jean 
Gorbal appears to hold, we can safely give Mr. Cargill the option of 
acknowledging your claim quietly and with little scandal, or of test- 
ing it in court.” 

“ When do you begin?” * ^ 

“Just now. I will go with you to Hill Street and see Mrs. Bur- 
nett.” 

He rose quickly, folded up the paper he had in his hand, and 
placed it in his pocket-book. 

Then he accompanied me to her house. 

Mrs. Burnett was in the parlor, busy with the arrangement of a 
new dress. Susan told me this; and Mr. Hewitt bade me wait in 
my own room until he called for me. 

He entered the parlor, and closed the door. 

I passed into my- bedroom, and took off my bonnet and cloak, I 
sat down, waiting with a cold, nervous feeling the result of the inter- 
view which was now going on. 

For some time I heard nothing but the low murmur of voices. 
Suddenly my mother gave a sharp cr}^, as if she had been struck or 
wounded in some way; then I started to my feet, I heard her 
speaking rapidly and loudly, but at first I could not distinguish any 
of the words. At last I heard her cry : 

“You are a wretch, and a false, wicked wretch, and it is a parcel 
of lies you come to me with! I tell you it is all false— every word 
of it! Leave the house, and never let me see your face again!” 

Mr. Hewitt said something in a low voice, and then he came out 
of the room. I met him on the threshold of my chamber. He 


A HARD KNOT. 


197 


seemed paler than usual, and he was frowning slightly, although he 
spoke calmly. 

“It is just as I expected,” he said; “she denies everything. Do 
you think you have nerve enough to face her, and to stand firm 
against her persuasions and her anger?” 

I answered him by walking straight into the parlor, and he fol- 
lowed close behind me. 

My mother was sitting upright on the sofa. Her eyes were un- 
naturally bright, and protruding. Her whole face was crimson with 
passion, and her lips moved nervously, 

A day before, had I seen her in this state, I would have been 
alarmed for her health, because the doctor had more than once 
warned me that any sudden or violent emotion would very likely 
result in a fit of apoplexy. But my heart was too much imbittered 
against her at this moment for me to think of that. As she sat 
there, I saw only the woman who had cheated me of a daughter’s 
duty and affection, while she had robbed me not only of fortune, 
but of a mother’s love and a father’s care. 

I felt hard and cruel ; I felt almost as if it would have given me 
no sorrow to have seen her fall dead at my feet. 

I held up the bundle of letters before her, and the sternness of 
my aspect seemed to frighten her, for her lips trembled more than 
before. 

“ Were these letters written to 5'^ou by my father, Robert Cargill?” 
I said. 

“Sarah!” she screamed, starting to her feet, “you don’t, you 
can’t, believe what that villain has put into your head? You can’t 
— you can’t believe that I, who have watched over you with all the 
tenderness of my heart, am not your mother?” 

“I do believe it — I know it. You have kept up this cheat upon 
me from my birth; you cannot deceive me now. Every word you 
utter, every angry look you give me, only confirms the truth that 
you are trying to keep up the cheat still in order to save your 
own daughter.” 

She stretched out her arms wildly towards me. Her mouth 
opened as if she were trying to speak; her face suddenly changed 
from a crimson to a livid hue; she tottered a step forward, and sank 
to the floor without a cry or moan. 

I was alarmed at this, but Mr. Hewitt whispered that it was an- 
other proof in our favor, since it showed how strongly the discovery 
of the truth had affected her. 

He lifted her on to the sofa, and, after making some efforts to re- 
store her to consciousness, he bade me send Susan for the doctor, 
while he carried my mother into her bedroom. 

Dr. Mitchell resides quite close to our house, and, fortunately, be- 


198 


A HAED KNOT. 


ing at home when the girl went for him, he was with us in a few 
minutes. He immediately applied himself to the restoration of my 
mother, and by the gravity of his looks I divined that her condition 
was more dangerous than I had suspected. 

Mr. Hewitt beckoned me to follow him to the lobby. There he 
rested his hand upon my shoulder and gazed steadily in my eyes, 

“You must have courage,” he whispered, “and you must be 
firm. You must steel your heart to resist her tears and supplica- 
tions as well as her anger. As soon as she recovers she will assail 
you with all the arts which have enabled her so long to sustain the 
fraud.” 

“ She cannot move me,” I said resolutely. 

After a moment’s pause, he nodded his head as if satisfied. 

“I can trust you,” he said, “but I do not think there is another 
woman in the world whom I could have trusted under the circum- 
stances. I am going to Jean Gorbal now; you come to me at the 
office to-morrow at twelve, and I will let you know the result.” 

He went away, and I returned to the bedroom, where the doctor 
was still engaged with my mother. He explained to me that she 
was laboring under a fit of apoplexy, caused by some unusual ex- 
citement ; and he warned me to keep her as quiet as possible, and 
above all things to keep the cause of excitement away from her. 

All that afternoon and the two following days my mother lay in 
a state of half-consciousness. I sat with her during the night, and 
towards morning she began to mutter incoherently. It was difficult 
to make much meaning out of her broken words and disjointed sen- 
tences. But by listening intently I at length succeeded in discover- 
ing her meaning. 

The effect of her mutterings was a complaint of my cruelty and 
of Laurence Hewitt’s knavery; and an assertion that Mr. Cargill’s 
scheme had not been successful, and, in fact, had not been carried 
out at all. 

The strain upon my own nervous system had been greater than I 
imagined, seeing that I kept so cool and felt so clear in all my fac- 
ulties. But in the stillness of the night, with the strange utterances 
of my mother, who lay between life and death, beating upon my 
ears, the strain began to tell. Her words obtained a larger meaning 
in my mind, in consequence of her condition, and that mysterious 
solemnity which always pervades a sick chamber in the depth of 
night. They made a much deeper impression upon me than I 
could have thought anything she said would have done. 

I began to question the course I had adopted, and began to doubt 
that the fraud which seemed to have wronged me so much had ever 
been perpetrated. 


A HARD KNOT. 


m 


CHAPTER XLI. 

DOUBTS. 

I CALLED upon Mr. Hewitt next day, as arranged. I explained 
my doubts to him, and he looked at first astonished and then serious. 

“You have surely forgotten all that I said to you yesterday,” he 
said, 

“ I have forgotten nothing.” 

“ Then you are too sensitive, and you are not so strong as I gave 
3' oil credit for being. Wh}^ what is more natural than that in her 
state of half-consciousness Mrs. Burnett should give utterance to the 
thought that was strongest and uppermost in her mind? That 
thought being, of course, for the safety of her child.” 

“That seems natural,” I said; “ and still I doubt.” 

He seemed to be anno}' ed, and looked at his watch to hide it. 

“Well, you have just five minutes to make up 3"our mind. We 
must decide within that time whether we are to stop where we are, 
or to go on, no matter what turns up.” 

“You are still convinced that we are right?” 

“More convinced than ever. I have seen Jean Gorbal, and al- 
though she will not give up the letters, she has shown them to me. 
They prove be3^ond doubt that the trick was successfully played, 
and that Mr. Cargill know^s it.” 

“ Will she show me the letters?” 

“No. She permitted me to see them only on condition that I 
should not trouble her about them again until they w’^ere required to 
be produced in a court of law. I promised her that neither 3^ou nor 
I would attempt to interfere with her treasure until their production 
became necessary.” 

“ Then she is willing to help us?” 

“Quite willing, only she is cunning and cautious, and will not 
commit herself until she sees that success is probable. Now, are 
we to go on or stop?” 

“ I will not hesitate again.” 

“ Then you must remember your promise to follow my directions 
in every particular, no matter how strange they may appear some' 
times.” 

“ You will not find me falter again.” 


200 


A HARD KNOT. 


“Very good. I hear our friend in the office. You will obtain 
some satisfaction from her.” 

He opened the door, and Jean Gorbal entered. I was astonished 
and sorry to see that, early as it was in the day, she had been drink- 
ing. Her step was not quite steady, and her manner was of that ex- 
cessively familiar and gay character which drink induces in some 
natures, and which is so repulsive when exhibited by a woman. 

She smirked and grimaced as she came into the room, and slapped 
Mr. Hewitt on the shoulder, calling him a “jolly lad,” as if she had 
known him for years. When she observed me, she saluted me with 
such an exuberance of friendliness, and so many significant winks 
and nods, referring to my relationship to Mr. Hewitt, that I felt 
somewhat disturbed. He placed a chair for her, and in doing so 
contrived to whisper to me to say as little as possible. 

While he accepted her familiarities with extraordinary good-hu- 
mor, and joked with her about her robustness and her widowhood, 

I was amazed to see him take from the cupboard a bottle of brandy 
and glasses, which he set upon the table. Seeing that she had al- 
ready had more than enough to drink, it seemed to me shameful to 
give her more; but, knowing that his object was to keep her in as 
good-humor as possible, I did not attempt to interfere with him. 

He poured out a large glassful and gave it to Mrs. Gorbal. He 
poured out a glassful for himself at the same time, but I observed 
that he took very little of it, while he did not permit hers to stand a 
moment empty. 

For some time he continued fro sustain a conversation, which con- 
sisted of the merest commonplaces about herself and her affairs. 
When, however, she had emptied her glass a third time, and ex- 
pressed her high approval of the liquor, he touched upon the busi- 
ness. His manner of doing this showed me that he had been grad- 
ually gliding up to the subject, although I had thought his observa- 
tions quite apart from it. So there was no abruptness apparent to 
her when he said : 

“You remember everything we were talking about last night?” 

“That do I, man, every word o’t, and ye’ll find that I can stick to 
a bargain like a burr, as ither folk hae fan’ before ye.” 

She winked and nodded to me significantly, as if there had been 
some important secret between us. 

“Then you consent to what I proposed,” he said, “ and you will 
help this lady to obtain her rights?” 

“Ay do I consent. I’ll help the lassie— that will I; for did I no 
nurse her when she was a wean? and, though we hae been parted 
this wheen years, I aye minded her, and, fact as death, I thought 
more aboot her since my callant ran awa’ frae me than I hae done 
about him, the ungratefu’ brat.” 


A HARD KNOT. 


201 


“ I knew you were a sensible woman, Mrs. Gorbal, and I am sure 
you will find that Miss Sarah likes you just as much as you can like 
her. ” 

“ Oh, we’re weel enouch acquaint — we’re weel acquaint. Are we 
no, Sarah?” 

And she winked and nodded to me again, with a species of 
drunken cunning which made me feel sick and disgusted. I did 
not know why. I had liked the woman well because of the good- 
nature she had always displayed towards me, and I had pitied her 
infirmity. But I had never seen her in this state before, and there 
was something in the peculiar expression with which she regarded 
me now that perplexed and troubled me. 

“I know that you have always been kind to me, Mrs. Gorbal,” 
I said awkwardly, “a^nd I am sure I am grateful. I do not know 
how I shall be able to repay you for the service you are about to 
render me now. But anything that I may have the power of doing 
I will do for you. As Mr. Hewitt has the entire charge of my af- 
fairs, he will arrange everything with you, and you can trust him as 
you would myself.” 

“I ken that, I ken that; and ye may lippen yersel to him safely. 
He’s a smart lad, and he’ll make a braw guidman, I doot na. Ay, 
an’ he’s a clever lad tae ; and if we a’ pu' thegither fair and steadily 
we’ll win the port we’re making for, nae fear. ” 

I looked at Mr. Hewitt, as much for an explanation of her strange 
look as of her strange words. 

By a slight motion of his hand he signalled me to be silent; and 
another time I was surprised by the course of this singular scene. 

“We can settle all that between ourselves, Mrs. Gorbal,” he said 
hastily; “in the meanwhile Miss Sarah will be obliged to leave us 
to our chat, as Mrs. Burnett is dangerously ill. ” 

As he spoke he advanced to me and led me towards the door. 

Mrs. Gorbal sat smirking and nodding drunkenly, as if everything 
was perfectly understood between us. 

I saw that he wished me to go, and in this, too, obeyed him, al- 
though I felt somewhat perplexed and bewildered by his conduct. 
As I was passing out at the door he whispered that he would call at 
Hill Street in two hours. 

I had promised him that I would not falter or hesitate again, no 
matter how strange his conduct might appear, and I walked home 
with more doubt in my mind than I had felt when he reprimanded 
me for my hesitation. But before I reached home I had satisfied 
myself that my doubts were the greatest ingratitude to him. He 
had explained to me all the difficulties that we would have to en- 
counter: he had left it to me to decide whether wc should stand 
still or advance, and I said— Advance. 

9 * 


202 ' 


A HARD KNOT. 


Acting upon that command, he was w^orking on my behoof with 
all the skill and knowledge his experience gave him; he was risking 
his reputation and all his future prospects for my sake in the con- 
test he had undertaken to wage with a man of such wealth and high 
position as Mr. Cargill, and it seemed to me, now that I reflected 
upon it, the cruellest ingratitude to doubt the necessity and propriety 
of anything he did. Besides, he had told me that the odds were so 
much against us that he must use means which, under other circum- 
stances, he would gladly have avoided. 

When he came to me, in two hours’ time, he found me firm and un- 
swerving in our purpose. 

The result of his second interview with Jean Gorbal resulted only 
in a clearer understanding of the agreement they had come to at their 
first meeting. 

From this, and from what she had said-to me herself, I now felt 
confident of her help, and therefore more assured of the final result, 

Mr Hewitt was particular .in his inquiries about my mother’s 
health and about the doctor’s opinion of it. Having told him every- 
thing, he confessed frankly that he could not feel sorry for her pres- 
ent condition, as it was more than probable that Mr. Cargill, the mo- 
ment he became aware of our efforts, would endeavor to see her, and 
would use all his influence over her to strengthen her in the denial of 
the truth. 

“When are you to acquaint him of my claim?” 

“You must acquaint him, and you must do it at once.” 

I shrank from this; but he showed me good reasons for it, 

“Kemember your promise,” he said, warningly, “and be bold. 
Why, if you have not courage to make known your claim, how can 
you expect others to acknowledge it?” 

“ I am ready,” was my reply. 

“That is right. You will go to Mavisbank, see your father, and 
tell him how you have discovered everything just as you told it to 
me. That will give him an opportunity of disposing of the matter 
quietly, and at any rate it will be a point in your favor that you en- 
deavored to obtain your legitimate position without clamor.” 

“ I understand, and I will do everything as you direct.” 

‘ ‘ There is a slight chance that when he sees you some degree of 
natural affection, combined with his dread of the exposure which 
would take place if the matter went into court, whatever way it 
might be decided, may lead him to save us the necessity of any fur- 
ther trouble. ” 

“He is a very proud man, I have heard, but he is said also to be a 
just man.” 

“ He will be put to the test now, and I shall be very much aston- 
ished if he does not try by some trick to outwit you. Should you 


A HARD KNOT. 


203 


fail to see him, ask for the lady who occupies your place ; explain 
everything to her, and, as I believe she is a gOod sort of a creature, 
she may be disposed, for her own sake as well as for yours, to pre- 
vent your adopting any violent measures.” 

“Is that possible?” 

“ It is just possible. But be particular about this, that in any case 
Mr. Cargill must not be permitted to have speech with Mrs. Burnett 
until the whole matter is decided.” 


CHAPTER XLII. 

SARAH CLOSES HER BOOK. 

Although Mr. Hewitt’s counsel appeared to me the wisest and 
best under the circumstances, as I have already told yuu, I could not 
help once or twice feeling an involuntary hesitation in obeying it; 
and although, in bidding me go to Mavisbank and state my claim, 
his direction agreed with my own sentiments, several days elapsed 
before I fulfilled his command. 

It was not that I feared the issue or feared Mr. Cargill ; indeed, I 
could be boldest always where I had to oppose myself to wealth — I 
envied or hated the possessors so much. I cannot explain why I 
shrank from this first and most important step towards the object I 
was resolved to attain. It might have been that I felt some twinges 
of regret on your account. Miss Cargill, but the feeling was so vague 
that you must not weigh it in the balance in my favor. 

At length I did go to Mavisbank. It was on the day on which 
Mrs. Burnett showed the first decided symptoms of recovery. You 
can remember the occasion of my visit; the surprise and pain of the 
discovery I made known to you must have been too great for you 
ever to forget. 

Of our interview I need say nothing more than that your beauty, 
your gentle manner, and your generous nature made me resolve that, 
come what might, you should share my good-fortune equally. 

When I told Mr. Hewitt that same night of the deep impression 
you had made upon me, and your apparent readiness to acknowl- 
edge me as a sister, he seemed to suspect your motive. 

“Her conduct is strange,” he said, “certainly; but she has so 
much at stake that we must wait till we see what it means. We 
shall know that by the time her father returns. Till then we must 
watch and wait.” 

He now cautioned me not to allow you or my father to see Mrs. 
Burnett, and in his cold, cynical way counselled me against yielding 
my rights to your apparent gentleness. 


204 


A HARD KNOT. 


lie inquired whether or not my mother had spoken of the busi- 
ness since she recovered from her delirium. 

“ No,” I replied. “ She seemed to awaken from a long and pain- 
ful sleep. She saw me by her bedside, and she regarded me with an 
anxious, half-frightened stare. Then she uttered a low moan, and 
since she has not spoken a word to me.-” 

Has she not asked about me?” 

“Yes. She asked Susan this morning, when she thought I was 
out of the room, but I had warned the girl not to speak of you ; and 
as I advanced to the bed my mother shrank back, making a feeble 
motion with her hands to Susan not to answer.” ' 

“Umph! When she does speak about me you must expect to 
hear her say unpleasant things.” 

Two days after that my mother was able to be lifted from her 
bed into the parlor. She seemed to be suffering greatly, not in 
her body, but in her mind. She spoke to me as little as possible. 
When I helped her to her food, or assisted her from one room to 
the other, she seemed to accept my aid with a degree of fright. 

I know that I was cold and stern in my manner towards her; but 
as I never had failed in my duty yet, and as I did not fail in it even 
now, so far as watchful care and readiness to do anything for her 
comprised my duty, her conduct chagrined me a little for the first 
day or' so. 

That feeling, however, soon disappeared. For, as she was aware 
of the determination of my character, and also knew the purpose 
upon which I was bent, it was natural that she should fear me and 
shrink from me. 

I warned Susan not to let her know when Mr. Hewitt called, lest 
it should disturb -her and perhaps produce another fit, which the 
doctor had told me would probably prove fatal. I suspect that 
Susan did not obey me in this, for on the third day after my visit 
to you he called. 

He told me that Jean Gorbal had consented to accompany me to 
Mavisbank as soon as Mr. Cargill returned, and to declare to him 
her intention of supporting my claim with all the testimony in her 
power. 

This was pleasant news, and it seemed to promise a speedy settle- 
ment of the whole troublesome affair. 

I returned to the parlor, where I had left my mother, and found 
Susan with her, bending over her as if whispering. The girl looked 
confused, and hastily left the room. My mother’s face was flushed 
and her lips twitched slightly, as on the day when she had the fit, 
and I feared another attack. 

It passed away, however, without any visible effect, and I did not 
refer to the circumstance either to her or to Susan. 


A HARD KNOT. 


205 


The next day, having gone out, I returned sooner than I had in- 
tended; and on entering the parlor I was astonished to observe a 
small table drawn close to the sofa on which my mother lay, and 
she was sitting up with writing materials before her, evidently tr}^- 
ing to write a letter. 

, At sight of me she started, snatched up the paper, and, crumpling 
it in her hand, thrust it into the bosom of her dress. 

I made no observation about this, but turned and left the room. 
I knew that she w’^as writing to Mr. Cargill, and I knew that Susan 
was to post it. It was quite as important that there should be no 
correspondence between them, in the meantime, as that they should 
not be permitted to have an interview. 

I went into the kitchen and found Susan there. The girl saw 
there was something wrong by my manner, and she began nervously 
to rattle the dishes she was washing. 

I asked her nothing; I merely told her that if she posted any let- 
ters for my mother ^he would do me a great injury, while she would 
not do Mrs. Burnett any real service. As I had always been consid- 
erate towards the girl, she immediately confessed that she had prom- 
ised to post a letter without letting me know, and declared that if it 
was to do me any harm she would rather have burned her hand off 
than have even thought of doing it. 

I was satisfied of her sincerity, and said nothing more than that 
she might have ruined my future prospects, and might do so still 
by yielding to my mother’s request. 

I showed her that I trusted her by going out again. This time I 
went to Mr. Hewitt to inform him of the circumstance. He urged 
me to hasten back, to secure whatever my mother had written, and 
to command her not to attempt to hold any communication with 
Mr. Cargill at present. I went back, and when Susan opened the 
door for me I saw that she had been crying. 

“ When she kenned you was oot again,” she said, sobbingly, “she 
begged and prayed me to post the letter for her, but I wouldna do 
it. Syne she was awfu’ distressed, and I was wae for her, but I 
wouldna break my word to you.” 

“ Had she the letter written?” 

“Ay had she, ready for the post.” 

“ What did she do with it?” 

‘ ‘ When she fan’ that she couldna get me to post it, she asked me 
for a light, and I gied her it, and I saw her burn the letter.” 

I thanked the girl, then joined my mother. 

The table was still beside her, and a candle was burning on it. In 
the plate of the candlestick w^as a small heap of ashes, confirming 
Susan’s statement of the destruction of the letter. I blew out the 
candle and put it away. Then, before speaking, I gave my mother 


206 


A HAKD KNOT. 


a dose of her medicine, hoping that it would give her some strength 
to hear me. 

She watched my movements with a painful eagerness that alarmed 
me somewhat for the effect of my words. But the consequences to 
me were too serious to permit me to be silent. When she had taken 
her draught I spoke, as quietly as possible : 

“You think my conduct cruel, but I cannot help that. I wish 
to avoid mentioning anything that may trouble you, but of one 
thing I am compelled to speak. You must not attempt to commu- 
nicate with Mr. Cargill.” 

Her head sank forward upon her breast, and she made no reply. 
From that day to the day on which she had her second attack, the 
subject was not referred to between us. 

I have now only a few final particulars to make known to you, 
and then you will be in possession of every fact which can serve to 
show how far I am guilty in this matter. 

On the forenoon of the sixth day after the Fast Mr. Hewitt came 
to me in a state of great excitement. He would not speak until we 
had got into my room and the door was closed. Then — 

“Everything is lost,” he said, speaking huskily, and with a degree 
of agitation that alarmed me. 

“ What is lost?” I cried, hastily. 

“Everything that we have been striving for — everything that we 
had so nearly gained — the proof which would have established your 
claim ; the proof before which Mr. Cargill dared not have attempted 
to stand; the proof without which we are powerless— is lost, de- 
stroyed beyond hope of recovery.” 

■ “ How is that — has Mrs. Gorbal been bribed?” 

“No, no; worse than that.” 

“ What can be worse than that?” 

He clasped my wrists with his hands tightly, his whole body seemed 
to be trembling, and his voice sank to a hoarse whisper : 

“ Don’t scream, don’t move when I tell you — Jean Gorbal has been 
murdered and the letters burned !” 

I neither moved nor cried out ; I stood still like one struck with 
stupor, gazing blankly in his perturbed face. I was utterly con- 
fused and stupefied. For the first moment I seemed to be conscious 
of nothing but the wild fancy that the earth had sunk from me, and 
I was falling, falling into space. 

“ Do you not hear ?” he muttered, almost fiercely; “ do you not 
understand? I tell you the woman is dead!” 

The sharpness with which he spoke recalled me to myself. I 
drew my hands from him and pressed them on my head, which was 
throbbing violently. Then, after a pause, during which we seemed 
to hear each other’s hearts beating, I said, with a calmness that star- 
tled myself. 


A HARD KNOT. 


207 


“And are iny hopes dead with her?” 

He was surprised by my manner, and it seemed to have the effect 
of subduing his excitement. 

“lies,” he answered, slowly, “unless we can discover who has 
done this, and can prove that the motive was to frustrate your 
claim.” 

There was a significance in his manner and words that made me 
feel sick, for I could only think of one person who could be moved 
to such a deed by such a motive — my father. 

“Who has done this?” I said sharply, and looking steadily at 
him. 

He made a quick movement with his shoulders, as if taken aback 
by the abruptness of my question. 

“Not the man you suspect,” he replied, his usual coolness return- 
ing to him; “ for he has not yet arrived.” 

“ Who then?” 

“You ask me as if I should know,” he said, evidently amazed. 

“You suspect?” 

“ I do, but in the meanwhile I will not tell you whom I suspect.” 

“ Then you think there is hope of our success even yet?” 

“ There is hope, but it is a very slight one — so slight that were it 
not that we have so much to gain I would be disposed to say, let us 
abandon it altogether.” 

“ How has it happened?” 

“ I have not time to tell you now, even if I knew the particulars 
correctly. You will see it all in the newspapers; and if I can dis- 
cover anything that is not known I shall tell you, although the very 
thought of it sickens me. Meanwhile, we must devote ourselves to 
arranging our plans anew.” 

“ What plans can we have now.” 

“Only one; that is, to trace the criminal; and to help me in do- 
ing that you must, by some means, obtain fifty pounds for me.” 

“ It is impossible. ” 

“Not at all; Hadden will lend it to you.” 

“ I cannot ask him for more.” 

“But you must. You have promised to follow my counsel in 
everything; it is more necessary now than ever that you should do 
so. When was Hadden here last?” 

“ Not since my mother’s illness.” 

‘ ‘ That is lucky. He is certain to be here within a day or so. You 
must take him into your confidence ; you must tell him everything, 
and show him everything, exactly as you have done with me. You 
must ask his advice as to what you should do under the altered 
circumstances, and you must conceal from him that you have said 
anything to me about the matter.” 


208 


A HARD KNOT. 


“Why?” 

“ For this reason; he is a good fellow, but he has his vanity, and 
he would expect that you should have asked his advice before 
mine. It would render him less willing to help us, perhaps, if he 
learned that you had done otherwise.” 

“But surely he could not expect me to have more confidence in 
him than in my future husband?” 

“Now, now, you must not be too particular about my reasons 
for all this. You must do as I tell you. You can let him know 
the next day, if you like, that you have told me everything, but he 
must not fancy that I knew it before him. Then you can easily 
make some excuse about expenses of one sort and another, and so 
obtain the loan from him. Will you do it?” 

I had never known Mr. Hewitt so imperative in his demand on 
any occasion before. I concluded that it was the result of his strong 
convictions, and I consented. 

“You will see,” he went on, “that his advice is valuable, and that 
it agrees with mine. At any rate, I would not be willing to oppose 
anything he suggested. I must tell you a secret which I only dis- 
covered recently. Mr. Hadden is connected with the detective force, 
and is considered one of its shrewdest and most successful members. ” 
^ “Mr. Hadden a detective!” I exclaimed. 

“Yes; it is his hobby, but he does not wish it to be known 
among his friends. Now, you tell him everything, and the prob- 
ability is that for your sake he will take up the case with more than 
his usual energy, and carry it to a successful issue. That issue, I 
believe, will be the one we desire.” 

- He then instructed me as to the manner in which I should make 
the revelation to Mr. Hadden. That gentleman will inform you 
how faithfully I carried out my instructions. But before I saw him 
my mother was stricken down by the second attack of her malady, 
which, as you are aware, ultimately proved fatal. 

A late edition of one of the papers had been published with a 
brief account of the murder at Port-Dundas. I bought the paper, 
and read the paragraph. 

It filled me with a strange gloom and a strange presentiment of 
evil in the future. But, as my enemies were prepared to proceed to 
such dire extremities as this, I was resolved now to fight them to the 
last with any weapon that my hand might find. 

I left the paper in the parlor. A little while after dinner I hap- 
pened to be in the kitchen with Susan, when we were both alarmed 
by hearing my mother give a violent shriek. We rushed into the 
room, and found her lying on the floor writhing as with pain. She 
was clutching the newspaper in her hand, and I divined at once tlK 
cause of her affliction. 


A HARD KNOT. 


209 


She had seen the notice of the murder. She had been struck by 
the same suspicion which had at first horrified myself, and her dread 
of the consequences had overwhelmed her. 

I snatched the paper out of her hand and threw it away. Then, 
with the girl’s assistance, I carried her to bed and unfastened her 
dress. That relieved her, and she turned upon me with an expres- 
sion of rage and horror. 

“You have done this!” she cried, gaspingly; “he has murdered 
her — you have done this — he knew that she could prove . . . both 
liars. . . perjured, ungrateful child . . . he is a villain, a villain and 
a murderer . . . you will be hung . . . both hung! My God, my 
child on the gallows !” 

There was sufficient coherence in this wild outcry to make my limbs 
tremble under me with fright at the terrible suggestion it forced 
upon me. But I had made up my mind to a particular reading of 
every circumstance around me ; I read them according to the mean- 
ing I wished to make out of them. Consequently I had little diffi- 
culty in twisting her words to suit my own view of the matter. 

But I dreaded the impression they might make upon Susan, or 
any other person. So I sent her out of the room, and told her not 
to go for the doctor until I told her. 

For more than an hour my mother continued to rave, rapidly be- 
coming more incoherent. In spite of myself, however, her real 
meaning was thrust upon my mind. 

She accused Laurence Hewitt of the murder of Jean Gorbal,*and 
she charged me with being his accomplice in the crime. 

The thought made my flesh creep and my blood curdle ; then it 
hardened me against her and enraged me. So much so that when 
her frenzy had reached its height, and paralysis struck her dumb 
and insensible, I experienced a sense of relief. 

Your tender nature will shudder at this; but don’t forget my posi- 
tion and thoughts at the time. 

I was still smarting under the wounds her words had made, , 
when I saw Mr. Hadden ; and in my passion I represented the case 
to him in its best light for myself, in its worst for others. 

Up till the day of her death my mother continued in a state of in- 
sensibility; but I dreaded her recovery, dreaded the possibility of 
any one hearing her repeat what she had said to me. That will explain 
why I was so anxious to prevent you or Mr. Cargill seeing her, 
even after he had pledged himself to acknowledge me. 

Mr. Hewitt made me still more anxious on this account. When 
I informed him of the accusation my mother had made against us 
he was very much agitated, but immediately recovered himself. 

“ The merest suspicion of this kind getting wind,” he said gravely, 

“ would ruin us both, and render our task hopeless.” 


210 


A HAKD KNOT. 


After that he called frequently at the house, and repeatedly 
warned me not to let anybody attend to my mother but myself. Re- 
peatedly, too, he questioned me about the doctor’s opinion of her 
probable recovery, and caused me, on my part, to make minute in- 
quiries on that subject. 

When I^Ir. Tavendale was arrested^ on the charge of Jean Gor- 
bal’s murder I was glad that somebody had been found on whom 
suspicion might be legitimately cast— I mean, somebody in- whom I 
had no interest. It relieved me of a dull, heavy burden which 
had been weighing me down, and the nature of which I could not 
have explained to myself even had I tried. But I avoided think- 
ing of it by every means in my power. 

I was amazed and somewhat shocked to learn that Mr. Hewitt 
had become the prisoner’s agent, and endeavored to dissuade him 
from it. I could not move him. 

“It is my policy,” he said, “ and you’ll see that it will come all 
right.” 

“You do not believe him guilty, then?” 

“No,” he answered decisively. “ I do not believe him guilty, 
and, as he is a friend of mine, I wish to serve him at a pinch.” 

“But you are placing yourself in an invidious position when it 
becomes known that you are also my adviser.” 

“ I tell you it is my policy; it will help me towards our own end, 
and to that end I am fully determined to work by every means in 
my power. I will not stop now, even if I should discover that your 
claim is a false one. ” 

I laid my hand firmly on his shoulder. 

“ Is there a possibility of that?” I asked. 

“ There is a possibility of anything in this world,” he said, with 
a strange laugh; “but of course I only meant that I would go on 
even if every chance of success were taken from us.” 

“ I would not move a step farther in the business if I thought that 
, any combination -of events could be discovered to destroy my claim.” 

“ Whether you discovered that or no, you must go on now. I 
have committed myself in ways you can’t guess, and we must both 
go on now, whether we are right or wrong.” 

“You are speaking in a very odd way to-night,” I said quietly, 
and scanning his features closely. 

He seemed disturbed, and laughed that strange laugh again. 

“ There, don’t mind my manner just now; I am bothered a little, 
that’s all. There will be a precognition of witnesses soon, and you 
will be called. I shall tell you what to say and do.” 

In the sheriff’s chambers, as in all things, I followed his direc- 
tions implicitly. After the examination he arranged with Mr. Car- 
gill to see me. Of the result you are aware. 


A HARD KNOT. 


211 


Tliat same evening Mr. Hewitt came to me again, in a strange 
mood, and told me that unless he could procure two thousand 
pounds by twelve o’clock next day he would be ruined. It was on 
that account, and for him, that I was so importunate in requiring 
the sum from Mr. Cargill when he came here with you next morn- 
ing to see my mother. 

You can perhaps recall the strange utterances of my mother when, 
a few minutes before her death, she regained the power of speech. 
Every word is branded on my memory, and most prominent of all 
is her denunciation of Mr. Hewitt with her last breath. 

You and Mr. Cargill were too deeply agitated to comprehend the 
real meaning of what she said. But I understood it all, and for 
the first time I was seriously troubled by the conviction that the dy- 
ing woman spoke the truth. For the first time her assertion pene- 
trated the thick guard of my desire to believe her words false. I 
felt that, lying there in the arms of death, she could not be attempt- 
ing to sustain the deception which I had believed, and wished to 
believe, she had been practising upon me since my birth. 

A cold chill struck my heart; every nerve became numbed. I 
remained, as you saw, calm and self-possessed ; it was because eveiy 
feeling had become frozen by the horror of what I had done, and 
by the horror of what he might have done — I say, might have done, 
because even then I doubted the possibility of his guilt. 

AVhen you had gone he came to me and asked me for the money. 
I gave it to him, but I had not power to question him; I had not 
power to ask him by what mysterious combination of circumstances 
the revelation of the scheme in Mr. Cargill’s letters, the truth of 
which he himself had acknowledged, came to be a delusion. 

I dreaded the answer too much. 

But my silence and my manner disturbed him. 

“What is the matter with you now?” he said, as if somewhat 
out of humor; “ are you distressed by what Mistress Burnett said? 
Tut! no one observed it; no one will bother us about it; and why 
should you be annoyed by the ravings of a crazy woman?” 

The callousness with which he spoke of the dead did not reassure 
me. 

“You are hiding something from me,” I answered steadily. 

He eyed me with a curious expression, which I understand now 
to have been the result of his anxiety to learn how much I suspected, 
and how far he might trust me as his accomplice. 

“I am hiding several things from you,” he exclaimed, lightly, 
“ but it is because they are of little consequence to you now. Why 
do you stare so hard at me? You look almost as if you w^ere afraid 
of me, or wished that we had been less successful in our plans.” 

“ I wish we had been,” and there was bitterness in my tone. 


212 


A HARD KNOT. 


“What! — when the object I have worked for and risked every- 
thing for is gained? when you are acknowledged by the million- 
aire as his heiress — you wish we had failed?” 

“It is because I fear that you have risked too much to gain it 
that our success frightens me.” 

“Tut, Sarah! you are excited by what has passed. Don’t talk 
that way again, or I shall begin to think th'at you have none of the 
strength of mind I gave you credit for.” 

“ Perhaps it would have been better for us both if I had had less.” 

There was silence for a few seconds, and then he said abruptly; 

“We must get married soon. I must see about the payment of 
this money. I will come to you to-night, most likely, and then I 
hope to find you more yourself than you are now. Good-bye.” 

He went away. 

All that afternoon I remained in a state of torture under the con- 
flicting horrors and hopes with which everything that had occurred 
had inspired me. Proud, and stern of nature, I smarted cruelly un- 
der the thought that the brilliant prosperity which had so suddenly 
flashed upon me, filling me with vain dreams and selfish gratifica- 
tion, was to be as suddenly snatched away from me, leaving me in 
shame and misery, the guilty accomplice of a murderer. 

He owned that he had concealed several things from me. What 
was it he had concealed? — the truth? 

That suspicion rankled in my mind, and I found no rest until I 
had resolved that, whatever might be the issue, when next he came 
I would insist upon knowing the worst. 

My perturbation w'as attributed by Susan, and the nurse whom 
the doctor had called in, to the death of my mother. They endeav- 
ored to console me with the usual commonplaces people offer to the 
sorrowing under similar circumstances. I was most grateful to 
them when they ceased their attempts to console me. 

Laurence HeVitt came to me that night, as he had promised to do ; 
but he had not expected to appear before me as he did — a hunted 
felon. 

I had my wish then; I learned the whole miserable truth. How 
bitter it was I pray Heaven you may never have an experience so 
cruel as to enable you to realize. 

But I loved him, and although I shrank from his guilt, the fren- 
zy, the distraction, into which the thought of his desperate posi- 
tion drove me made me ready to fly with him and share his evil 
fate. 

1 was opportunely rescued from that mad step by the arrival of his 
pursuers. I am calm now, and I am glad that I have been rescued. 
I would have been a clog upon his movements; I might have been 
the means of delaying him and leading to his capture. I am glad 


A HARD KNOT. 


213 


we have both been saved the misery we should have caused to one 
another in keeping alive the memory and the horror of the past. 

I wait now to learn that he is beyond the danger of present capt- 
ure. Then I will lay this statement before you. 

It contains everything relating to my motives and actions, which 
you cannot learn from others; and I pray that it may assist you in 
saving Mr. Tavendale. I have written here the whole truth. I only 
ask you to Judge me by it. Sarah Burnett. 

You see I have resumed my own name. I accept my real posi- 
tion. Now I may close the book. 


CHAPTER XLIII. 

AT MAVISBANK. 

The morning which dawned so dismally upon the wrecked pros- 
pects of Sarah Burnett was full of hope and light to Katie. It 
seemed to bring her a store of new strength ; and the douce medical 
gentleman who, only the morning previous, had forbidden her to 
leave her bedroom, was astonished on this morning to find her up 
and moving about with unusual energy. 

He accepted it as one of the most marvellous cures he had ever 
effected; Pie cautioned her to be careful not to overtask her new 
strength, for, although she looked well, her face was pale, and there 
was a nervous excitement in her eyes with which he was not alto- 
gether satisfied. 

“I feel quite strong, doctor,” Katie said, smiling a little saclly; 
“ but I shall not forget your instructions. In the meantime I must 
ask you to see my father. A very old — friend of his died recently, 
and he is much affected. I am afraid the shock has done him more 
harm than he would wish me to believe, and I must beg of you to 
tell me the truth concerning him.” 

“Certainly, Miss Cargill, certainly; but I hope we Shall find his 
ailment less serious than you seem to imagine it is. Shall I wait 
upon him now?” 

“ If you please; but I must tell him first that you are here.” 

On the previous afternoon, when Katie rejoined her father in the 
carriage, after her interview with Mr. Lyon, she had found him lean- 
ing back, his eyes closed, and his austere features relaxed in an ex- 
pression of utter exhaustion. She had touched his arm, and he had 
opened his eyes wearily. 

He observed her face flushed with the excitement of the hope she 
had found in the prospect of being able to save Alick Tavendale. 


214 


A HARD KNOT. 


“ Do you not wish to see Mr, Lyon?” she asked. 

“No, not to-night — to-morrow,” he rejoined, feebly; “bid the 
man drive home.” 

The, carriage drove away, and Mr. Cargill continued to gaze upon 
his daughter with an expression of sorrowful concern. At length — 

“You have heard something to please you, Katie,” he said. 

There was a low tenderness in his voice which, more even than 
his changed appearance, indicated the softening influence the events 
of the day had had upon him. 

“ I have heard something to make me glad, father,” cried Katie, 
bending forward and clasping one of his hands. “Alick’s inno- 
cence can be proved,” 

“ 1 am glad of that. Tell me how.” 

She briefly repeated to him the result of her conversation with 
Mr, Lyon, and when she had flnished he merely said : 

“ I am glad of that for your sake, my child.” 

Hard and cold as he had always appeared to others, to her he had 
been always kind; and although his kindness was mingled with a 
degree of austerity even to her, she had seen below the surface of 
his character, and had known how devotedly he had watched over 
her, and had tried to gratify her in all things. On that account the 
very coldness of his outward manner seemed to have made her love 
him more. 

He had to be assisted from the carriage, and, in spite of the strong 
effort he made to conceal his weakness, she saw that he had diffi- 
culty in standing alone. She wished him to permit her to send for 
the doctor, but he would not consent to that. 

“I’m only tired,” he said, “and a little disturbed by Avhat has 
passed. Rest will restore me, and to-morrow you will find me quite 
strong, and prepared to do my duty to you and — to your sister, whom 
I have so wronged,” 

The pride of his nature had been severely bruised, but there was 
still enough left of the old spirit to make him desire to hide his grief 
and shame from the eyes of others— even from the eyes of Katie. 

All that evening he had remained alone. He had forbidden any 
one to enter hi-s room until he rang, and until midnight he made no 
sound. 

There w^as no light in the lofty apartment save that of the fire; and 
the massive furniture cast gloomy shadows upon the weak old man 
lying so still in his easy-chair that it seemed almost as if every spark 
of energy in his frame had been extinguished. Everything around 
him betokened the wealth of which he was the possessor, and now 
those grim shadows of his own riches seemed to point derisively at 
the feeble creature to whom they could give no pleasure, no hope. 

The contrast between the man as he had been only a few days 


A HARD KNOT. 


215 


ago and the man as he appeared now was so great that it would 
have inspired with pity even those whom his hauteur had offended 
most. 

Step by step he had advanced in wealth and in reputation as a man 
of high principle, and now all the gold which had poured in upon 
^him, the gold before which people seemed to bend and yield if he 
moved a finger, was powerless to rescue his name a moment from 
the contempt and scorn which every one w'ould cast upon it. 

Frustrated, humiliated, wdien he seemed strongest and proudest, 
he shrank from the gaze of men; he tried to shrink even from his 
own gaze. His thoughts were those of bitter shame or bitter regret 
for his own folly, and of fierce determination, now that the worst 
had come, to meet it with stern front, to defy the world and its scorn. 

On the following morning he was still weak, but by a huge effort 
of will he rose from his bed. Assisted by one of his attendants he 
descended to the breakfast-room, and Katie was more than ever 
alarmed by his appearance. 

He tried feebly to reassure her, and in part succeeded. But when, 
after breakfast, she had to assist him to the library, she insisted that 
he should see the doctor when he called. 

“To please you, Katie, I will do as you wish, although I know 
that he can do nothing for me. It is only rest I require; and as 
soon as it is possible we shall go away to some quiet country place 
where our — misfortunes may be unknown, and we may be free from 
the eyes of the vulgar crowd.” 

“ I will go anywhere with you, father, w^hen Alick is safe.” 

“Yes, yes, when Alick is safe,” he muttered, his brows contract- 
ing; and, abruptly — “You will send for Sarah to-day.” 

“ I will go for her as I return from — Alick.” 

She had faltered over the last wmrd, not because she hesitated to 
inform her father of the journey she proposed making, but because 
she found the word “prison” so hard to pronounce, and changed it 
to her husband’s name. 

]\Ir. Cargill made no comment upon her intimation, he asked her 
no questions, and seemed desirous of avoiding the subject of her re- 
lationship to the prisoner as much as possible. 

When she now entered the library in order to tell her father that 
the doctor was waiting she found him at the table busily writing. 
He stopped as soon as she appeared, and told her that the doctor 
might come to him there, and that she was to retire during the in- 
terview. 

She was not permitted time to fret herself with anxious surmises 
as to the result of the doctor’s examination of his patient, for, just 
as she was leaving the library, Easton met her with the intelligence 
that Mr. Lyon was w'ailiug to see her. 


216 


A HARD KNOT. 


CHAPTER XLIV. 

JUSTICE OR MERCY? 

Mr. Lyon, with his grave face lightened by an expression of a 
subdued pleasure, advanced to meet Katie as she entered the room. 
She did not give him time to say a word. She clasped his hand 
with a warmth that thrilled him. She looked into his eyes with an 
eagerness that pained him; and, although it could not make him 
hesitate in his purpose, it recalled some of those vain regrets which 
had made him fear the source of his conviction in regard to Taven- 
dale’s case. That now, however, only strengthened him in what he 
had to do. 

“You have brought me good tidings,” she cried; “you have come 
to tell me that he is safe.” 

“ I have come to prove to you that the doubt you entertained of 
me yesterday was unjust.” 

“ I know that, Mr. Lyon; but you will forgive me — you have for- 
given me, for you know what I was suffering when I spoke so un- 
kindly.” 

She was distressed by the memory of the suspicion with which she 
had regarded him in the heat of her defence of her husband. He 
saw that, and, holding up his hand as if to ward away all further 
reference to the subject, he said: 

“You found me yesterday callous and cruel, as you naturally 
thought ; but you could not know how much it had cost me to as- 
sume the position I did regarding Mr. Tavendale. Remember the 
position in which I was placed as a man whose fondest hopes had 
been destroyed by him, and as a servant of justice called upon al- 
most to pronounce judgment of life or death upon him — when you 
remember that I believe you will try to think gently of what ap- 
peared so harsh to you yesterday.” 

“You speak as if it had been you who had given offence, and not 
I. But don’t think so poorly of me as to imagine that I do not un- 
derstand how wrong I was, and how much I owe your generous 
kindness.” 

“ Thank you. Miss Cargill — or let me show you how completely 
I have obtained the command of those feelings which are now an 
insult to you and an agony to myself, by calling you Mrs. Tavendale.” 


A HARD KNOT. 


217 


“ Can you call me by that name, and can you tell me that I may 
bear it without shame?” 

“I believe you may. Circumstances have come to light since 
yesterday afternoon which, I believe, will speedily obtain your hus- 
band’s release. More than that, I believe these same facts will prove 
that you and your father have been subjected to an extraordinary 
imposition.” 

“ In regard to what?” 

“ In regard to the lady who claims to be your sister. But of that 
I must speak to Mr. Cargill. At present I wish to tell you only of 
those matters which more immediately interest you.” 

Then you have found some of the servants who saw him here 
on the evening of the crime?” 

Mr. Lyon shook his head. 

“ No. But the lad who brought Mr. Tavendale’s letter to you, 
and your answer to him, remembers the day well, and it was on the 
day of the murder. So far, that helps to prove that the letter you 
have got undated is the one which the lad delivered on that day.” 

“ Only helps to prove it?” 

“ That is all, for there might have been other letters written. You 
shrink from me almost as if you were afraid that I was about to 
give you an argument to his disadvantage. But you must not fear 
that. I simply wish to show you the true value of proof for and 
against him.” 

“But is there no proof strong enough to satisfy you that he was 
here on that evening, as I told you?” 

“Your own word is more than sufficient to satisfy me; but it is 
not sufficient to satisfy the law. We must have some evidence to 
corroborate your statement, and that we have partly found in the ex- 
amination Inspector Speirs has made of the premises.” 

“ Has he been here ?” 

“He was here last night. He found that the broken bottles on 
the top of the garden wall, close to the doorway, had been partially 
torn away, as if to enable some one to pass over the wall. On one 
of the pieces of glass he found a shred of cloth, which will no doubt 
serve to explain how Mr. Tavendale’s clothes were torn. At the 
foot of the wall, on the inside, he found the ladder by which Mr. 
Tavendale had been assisted in reclimbing. At the entrance to the 
summer-house he discovered a small hole, which was no doubt that 
made by the point of Mr. Tavendale’s umbrella ; and on the floor he 
found the key of the door. All this corroborates your testimony; 
but, unfortunately, it does not help us much in the matter of the 
date. ” 

Katie looked uneasy, and then, with a sudden glow of inspira- 
tion — 


10 


218 


A HARD KNOT. 


“Have you examined my maid Easton with the other servants?” 

“ She is the only one wdio has not been examined, hut the inspec- 
tor will see her to-day. ” 

“I will call her now — you will speak to her yourself — she must 
have seen him, and 1 cannot rest until this matter is settled.” 

“Stay, I have more to tell you. There is not so much dependent 
upon this point nOw as there appeared to be yesterday. I believe 
that even if we should fail altogether in respect of this point in the 
evidence, Mr, Tavendale’s safety is assured by other events, ” 

“ And they are?” 

“That another man is charged with the crime, and that the proofs 
against him are quite as strong, if not stronger, than any that have 
been brought against your husband.” 

“God bless you, Mr. Lyon,” she cried, sobbing with joy. 

He stepped aside to the window to permit her to recover from her 
emotions, and to conceal his own. 

Presently he felt her hand resting on his arm, and, looking round, 
he saw her bonny, tearful face upturned to his timidly. 

“ Can you take me to see him now?” she faltered. " 

“I will be ready to accompany you the moment after I have 
spoken to your father. But how is it you do not ask me what the 
circumstances are which have so altered Mr. Tavendale’s position?” 

“I do not care about the circumstances, I only care to know that 
he is safe. ” 

So saying she conducted him to the library, at the door of which 
they met Dr. Lawson, who was just leaving. 

“You must be careful not to excite him,” whispered the doctor, as 
she passed into the chamber. 

Mr. Lyon was struck by the altered appearance of the millionaire, 
but he avoided any reference to the subject. 

“I have intelligence of much importance for you, Mr. Cargill,” 
he said, after the usual greetings had passed between them; “intel- 
ligence which, I anticipate, will relieve you from some of your pres- 
ent annoyance.” 

Mr. Cargill inclined his head as if in intimation of his attention. 

“But first,” Mr. Lyon proceeded, “I must trouble you to answer 
one question. Among the letters in the possession of Miss Burnett 
there is one referring to an attempt made by you to obtain certain 
letters from the unfortunate Mrs. Gorbal.” 

“I remember the note you allude to.” 

“ May I ask, then, what was the nature of those letters you were so 
anxious to obtain ?” 

Mr. Cargill’s lips became compressed as with a spasm, indicating 
the effort he had to make to speak without agitation. 

“They were letters written by me to the unfortunate woman in 


A HAIID KNOT. 


219 


reference to the fraud which v/as afterwards effected, and others 
W’l’itten by the late Dr. Largie regarding the same matter.” 

“Do you know anything of the contents of Dr. Largie’s letters — 
did you ever see them?” 

“No, the woman would neither allow me to see them, nor part 
with them on any consideration.” 

“ What was your reason for desiring to possess them?” 

“ To destroy them, in order that they might never be the means 
of an exposure. I have answered you frankly. May I inquire now 
why you put these questions ?” 

“ Because I believe that had you obtained Dr. Largie's letters you 
would have discovered a state of matters which would have relieved 
you from years of anxiety, and which would have prevented the re- 
cent unhappy events.” 

Mr. Lyon then, as succinctly as possible, repeated the principal 
facts of the statement made by the husband of the deceased woman. 
He produced the written declaration, bearing the signatures of the 
various persons concerned in the conspiracy, and finished by saying 
that Thomas Gorbal was waiting in the hall, ready to give any in- 
formation that might be required from him. 

Astounded, bewildered, enraged, and relieved by turns, Mr. Car- 
gill listened to the strange narrative. 

His excitement reached its height when Katie, who had listened 
with quickening pulse, clasped him round the neck with a great cry 
'of pain. 

“Father! father!” was all she could say. 

He gripped her in his arms with spasmodic vigor, and his fading 
eyes, which had been so hot and parched, were filled with tears. 
The strong nature of the man, which had borne in silence the agony 
of shame and the degradation to which the child he loved had been 
about to be subjected on his account, gave way now, and he sobbed 
as if his heart were bursting as he fondled her, knowing that she 
was safe from the consequences of the fraud he had long ago medi- 
tated towards her. 

“Oh! Heaven is merciful to you — to me, my child,” he sobbed, 
embracing her passionately ; “but I am guilty, Katie, guilty, and 
you should turn from me and spurn me.” 

She only clung to him the more closely at that. 

“It was by Heaven’s mercy that my guilty scheme miscarried, but 
my crime is not the less, my soul is not the less black. I am un- 
worthy of your love— unworthy to be permitted to touch your pure 
hand — to obtain one gentle thought in your pure heart — I am — ” 

“You are my father,” she said, and that was all her argument, 
having no thought of blame to cast upon him. 

His voice had been low and tender as he had murmured his re- 


220 


A HARD KNOT. 


morse over her ; and Mr. Lyon and Katie were both startled to hear 
his voice rise abruptly to a harsh and angry key. 

“Where is the man — the double villain — who would have com- 
mitted a second murder in hanging Tavendale for his crime ? Where 
is he?” 

“His position as the agent for the accused enabled him to obtain 
early intimation of his own danger, and thus far he has succeeded in 
eluding the officers. But they are on his track, and in a few days 
they expect to be able to lay hands on him.” 

Mr. Cargill laid his trembling hands on his brow, groaning — 

“Oh ! blind, blind that I have been. Now I understand all that 
seemed only the wild ravings of a dying woman ; now I understand 
why, with her last breath, she denounced him as the assassin.” 

“ Do you mean the late Mistress Burnett?” 

“Ay, she — she understood it all; she would have revealed the 
fiendish scheme that man had hatched; and we would not trust her. 
But he was not alone in the plot ; he had an accomplice. Sarah !” 

He uttered the name with a shriek of agony, and theu covered his 
'face as if he would hide himself from the friends who stood by him, 
as if he would fain have blinded himself to the horrible conclusion 
to which he had been led. 

Katie flung her arms round him with a cry of dismay and shud- 
dering fright. 

“Do not say that, do not say that — father, father, it is impossible, 
that she could have been so cruel, so guilty— she, who is my sister 
and your child.” 

Her words were half stifled by the tears and sobs which swelled 
her heart to bursting. 

“Oh, my God, I am punished!” groaned the stricken man, his fee- 
ble body swaying to and fro, his ears deaf to the appeals Katie made, 
his mind insensible to the consolation she tried to offer him. 

Of a sudden his pitiable moans ceased, his limbs became almost 
rigid. He put Katie’s hands away from him firmly, but touching 
her with a reverent respect, as if he thought that he Tvas unworthy 
even to touch one so pure. 

He rose slowly to his feet, his worn visage pallid as death, and 
with an expression hard and grim as iron in the resolution he had 
taken. Traces of tears still marked his features, but they served 
only to give his expression additional sternness. 

He laid his hand upon the bell. 

“He has escaped, you say?” — turning a little towards Mr. Lyon. 

“For the present he has eluded us,” rejoined the latter, watching 
him curiously and anxiously. 

“And you say ’’—faltering here— “you say that he was engaged 
to marry Sarah Burnett — my daughter?” 


A HARD KNOT. 


221 


“It is in that engagement we find the motive of his crime.” 

“ Then she will know where he is lurking. She shall deliver him 
to us.” 

He rang the bell. 

“For Heaven’s sake, sir, be careful!” exclaimed the magistrate. 

“ I will be just — I will fulfil the duty that is appointed to me to 
do; it is part olmy atonement.” 

He rang the bell again. 

“Explain, I beseech you, what you are about to do?” 

“ To see her, to force the truth from her — to deliver her into the 
hands of justice, if necessary.” 

Katie had been standing in awe and bewilderaient at his strange 
manner, observing his movements with timorous eyes, and when he 
declared the purpose which he had formed she rushed to him as if 
to snatch the bell from him. 

He extended his arm, still respectfully and firmly keeping her back. 

“You will not do this — you cannot do this,” she cried. “ Sarah is 
not the guilty woman you take her to be — she has been deceived; 
and although she had not been, although she were the worst and 
vilest you could imagine her to be— ah, sir, for all that, remember she 
is your daughter still. ” 

Her words and manner caused him to regard her with that quick 
look of authority with which in former days he would have over- 
borne any opposition to his will; but he checked the impulse, and 
retorted calmly : 

“lam not cruel. I am just to you and to her.” 

A third time he rang the bell, and as he was doing so a footman 
appeared at the door. 

“The carriage instantly.” 

The footman bowed and closed the door. 

Katie dropped upon her knees at his feet, clasping his hands, and 
looking up imploringly at his inflexible visage. 

“Ah, fathel’, this is human justice, which knows no- mercy. If 
she has done wrong— if she is guilty, as you think she is, should 
yours be the first hand to strike her?” 

His head bent a little, but he made no response, his expression did 
not change. 

“ She is your daughter,” Katie pleaded, with tearful face; “but 
have you been a true father to her? Have you watched over her as 
you have watched over me? Have you tended her and guided her 
as you have done with me? Have you given her the position to 
which, as your daughter, she had a right? You have done nothing 
of all this, and now, because she has erred, you condemn her, you 
would torture her by seeking to sacrifice her to what you call 
justice.” 


222 


A HARD KNOT. 


“Rise,” he said huskily, but without any tone to indicate that he 
was softened hy the appeal. 

“ Not until you have promised, for my sake, for my mother’s sake, 
for her mother’s sake, to be merciful to her now, as Heaven has 
been merciful to you and to me.” 

He raised her to her feet. 

“I will be merciful, I will give her a share of my wealth, I will 
place her above the temptation of evil in the future, I will do all 
you would have me to do for her, except permit her to have a place 
in my house, or to be near you, if she will be honest and deliver up 
the murderer.” 

The door opened again, and the domestic announced that the car- 
riage w^as ready. 

“You will accompany me, Mr. Lyon,” said Mr. Cargill, “to this 
woman’s house. You shall judge between us.” 

The magistrate bowed. 

“And I too — I will go with you,” exclaimed Katie, eagerly, 
alarmed for the consequences to Sarah, and anxious to'be present at 
the interview, that she might stand between her and the wrath of 
her father. 

She did not give Mr. Cargill time to forbid her to accompany him. 
She ran away the instant she had spoken to procure her bonnet and 
cloak. She was first down at the door, and first in her place in the 
carriage. Mr. Lyon dismissed Gorbal, who had been w^aiting in the 
hall, and bade him not leave his lodgings, lest at any moment he 
should be required. 

The old stern spirit stirred within the millionaire’s breast, and 
quickened his limbs to renewed strength. In the morning he had 
with difficulty tottered from one room to another, assisted by his at- 
tendant or his daughter; now, only leaning a little more heavily 
than usual upon his staff, he descended the staircase, and took his 
seat in the caiTiage, declining the proffered aid of the domestic who 
followed close behind him. 

The carriage stopped in front of the house in Hill Street. The 
closely drawn blinds, the muffled knocker, and the silence which 
seemed to prevail about the dwelling, gave sad intimation that death 
had been lately there. 

As they stepped out of the carriage Katie touched her father’s 
arm, and, with a slight movement of her hand, indicating the signs of 
what had just happened, she whispered : 

“Recollect that her mother is lying in the house dead.” 

A slight shiver passed over his frame, and then, with a bend of the 
head, he acknowledged her request. 

Mr. Lyon, who had followed them on horseback, joined them as 
Susan opened the door, and entered with them. 


A HARD KNOT. 


223 


CHAPTER XLV. 

FAITHFUL TO THE LAST. 

The girl looked a little frightened at sight of the visitors, and in 
answer to the inquiry for Miss Burnett stammered confusedly, as if 
she did not know whether or not to say that she was at home. 

She, however, ushered them into the parlor, and abruptly closed 
the door upon them, without asking their names, or promising to tell 
her mistress that they were waiting. 

Mr. Lyon stood only a few paces from the door, at which he 
glanced occasionally with an uneasy expression, as if he fain would 
have warned the lady they were expecting not to entpr. Mr. Car- 
gill stood in the centre of the room, his eyes fixed on the floor, and a 
nervous movement about the lips which betokened the under-current 
of emotion his frowning brow and hard manner subdued and con- 
cealed. Katie was by his side, alternately glancing at his face and 
the door. No word was spoken by any of them. Thus, for the 
space of five minutes, which seemed an hour. Then Sarah entered. 

She was dressed in black, her hair was smoothly brushed, her face 
was pallid and lined with furrows of care, her eyes were dim and 
sunken, and her eyelids drooped over them, as if they could not bear 
the light of day. Her expression was one of submission, weariedly 
placid, unnaturally still. Her manner partook of the strange still- 
ness, and it seemed almost as if her presence commanded silence. 

Mr, Lyon was the first whom she seemed to observe, and him she 
greeted with a slight inclination of the head. Then slowly she 
turned to Mr. Cargill, but she did not hold out her hand or address 
him. 

She stood before him as one meekly waiting to learn his wishes. 

He had raised his head quickly on her appearance, and surveyed 
her with an expression of wrath, which gradually changed to one of 
bitter curiosity. Her manner was so meek, so subdued, so silent, that 
the angry words which had risen to his lips faded upon them, and 
he felt some difficulty in finding the proper mode of addressing her. 

Katie had waited timorously for her father to speak, but finding 
him still dumb, and seeing her sister standing there almost like a 
criminal before a judge, her gentle nature could not endure the posi- 
tion, and she made a quick movement as if to take Sarah’s hands. 


224 


A HARD ICS^OT. 


Mr. Cargill grasped her arm with a violence that hurt her, and 
thrust her back. 

“I have permitted you to accompany me here,” he said with dig- 
nity ; “I will not permit you to interfere between me and this wom- 
an ; neither will I permit you to speak to her until she has showm 
herself repentant.” 

Katie was abashed, and hei\eyes drooped as if she could not bear 
to look upon her sister’s humiliation. Sarah, however, only raised 
her eyes quietly, and met her father’s gaze with a look cold and res- 
olute as his own. Then she folded her hands, and waited for the 
storm to burst. To an angry man no conduct is more exasperating 
than that of simple patience. If she had spoken, if she had shown 
the least agitation of fear or sorrow, Mr. Cargill might have addressed 
* her more calmly ; as it w^as he burst into the heat of his passion at 
once. 

“Evidently, madam, you have anticipated our visit, and are pre- 
pared for it.” 

“You told me yesterday, sir, that you wmuld either call or send to 
me to-day ” (this so meekly that it was impossible to say whether or 
not she meant it for sarcasm). 

“ True. Yesterday, when I thought you worthy to be acknowl- 
edged as the sister of this lady, I intended to come for you or send 
to-day; but it was with a different object in view than that wdiich 
has brought me here now. You do not move. Good Heavens, 
madam! are you incapable of shame?” 

‘ ‘ I wait, sir, to know the purpose w^hich seems to excite you so 
much.” 

“You are either less guilty than I imagine you to be, or you are 
more guilty, ” he said constrainedly. ‘ ‘ I own tliat your conduct per- 
plexes me, but I shall not remain long in doubt as to its meaning. 
Yesterday I believed you to be one wdiom I had grievously wronged; 
to-day I learn that the position you claimed you have no right to, 
and you knew it.” 

He paused, as if expecting her to answer; but she did not speak 
or move, and he resumed, with a touch of scorn in his tone, 

“I presume, madam, that it is unnecessary for me to repeat to you 
the wu-etched details of your attempted fraud and of the man Hew- 
itt’s crime?” 

Her hands tightened a little upon each other at that, but she did 
not speak yet, and she displayed no other symptom of perturbation. 

“Yesterday, believing you honest, I purposed giving you freely 
all you claimed; to-day, knowing you to be guilty, I have yielded 
to the prayers of one whose name you would have disgraced, and I 
purpose giving you much more than at any time you had a right to 
expect. I purpose giving you the means to live in affluence, and I 


A HAKD KNOT. 


225 


purpose to assist you to escape the punishment the law might inflict 
for your share in Hewitt’s crime, if you will prove to us now that 
you merit one kindly thought, that you are capable of regret and re- 
pentance for the harm you have done, and for the harm you sought 
to do.” 

“ I listen.” 

The two words dropped from her lips with icy clearness, although 
they were not pronounced above her breath, 

‘ ‘ So far I am pleased that you make no vain attempt to deny your 
falsehood. I seek only one thing more, and then we may part, never, 
I trust, to see each other again. The murderer, Hewitt, I under- 
stand, was your betrothed husband; he was with you last night, and 
you must know his hiding-place. I am here to command you to re- 
veal it. I am here to demand that you will make atonement to those 
whom you have betrayed by delivering him to the scaffold. ” 

A slight flush had covered her pallid face at the words, “the mur- 
derer Hewitt,” and as Mr. Cargill finished speaking, her breathing 
became quick and labored, as if with the violent effort she made to 
maintain her composure. 

“ I seek to deny nothing, sir,” she said, in a low, steady voice; “ I 
do not seek even to retaliate upon you the epithets which you have 
cast upon me. I do not seek to excuse myself in any way, but 
neither can I explain my position at present. All the opprobrium 
with which you can regard me I deserve, and I submit myself to it; 
but I can tell you nothing. ” 

“ Do you refuse to purchase your own safety, to secure your own 
future position, that you may screen a murderer from justice?” 

“ I would not purchase all that you, all that the world, could give 
me at the price of his life. ” 

“ Infamous ! Would you leave an innocent man to perish when 
a word from you can place the real criminal in our hands ?” 

“I can answer you nothing at present.” 

Her thin lips closed tightly, as if she had determined that these 
were the last words that she ’would speak. 

“By Heaven, j’-ou shall not thwart us. I command you to speak, 
and save yourself from the hangman’s hands.” 

She was silent and immovable, 

“Are you human?” he cried, exasperated beyond measure. 
“Look, Katie, this is the woman for whom you threw yourself at 
my feet, begging mercy. She for whom you wept and pleaded has 
neither tears nor pity. She is hard and callous as the villain with 
whom she would have mated herself. She knows that your hus- 
band, innocent of this crime as yourself, lies under the black charge, 
and she will not speak one word to rescue him, even for your sake.” 

Still Sarah was silent, cold and motionless as a statue. 

10 * 


226 


A HARD KNOT. 


Mr. Cargill’s passion exhausted him, and he sank on a chair, weak 
and trembling. 

“ Speak to her, Mr. Lyon,” he said hoarsely; “her father’s voice 
has no power over her, but that of a magistrate may obtain the an- 
swer which neither pity nor gratitude can wring from her.” 

Mr. Lyon was close by her, and bending towards her he spoke in 
his low, earnest voice. 

“I beseech you, Miss Burnett, relieve your father’s anxiety, and 
do not lay yourself under the suspicion of wishing to risk an inno- 
cent life for that of one so guilty as Laurence Hewitt. ” 

She was still unmoved. 

Then Katie, breaking away from her father, ran to Sarah and flung 
her arms round her neck, sobbing. 

“ Sarah — my sister in shame or innocence — 5mu will speak for my 
sake, if not for your own, or you will tell me why you are silent.” 

The woman was touched at last. 

There was a moment of breathless silence in the room, during 
which Sarah’s hands became clinched, her breast rose "and fell, and 
her lips quivered with the passionate pain that swelled within her. 
Suddenly she clutched Katie’s shoulders, and bent so close to her 
that her hot breath burned on the cheeks of the one creature who 
had made her feel that she was not left quite without sympathy. 

“I will speak,” she said in a husky whisper; “I will tell you 
everything I know, if when you learn my reason for being silent you 
command me to speak.” 

‘ ‘ Trust me, Sarah, ” she answered fervently ; ‘ ‘ tell me your reason. ” 

In a passionate whisper came the response, “ I loved him.” 

Katie drew a quick breath, and dropped her head on Sarah’s shoul- 
der. To her those three words explained all the error of the wom- 
an’s life ; and while they dispelled her own hopes of obtaining from 
her the information which her father demanded, and which would 
have been of so much importance to Tavendale, they seemed to war- 
rant the sympathy she had given. 

“Ah, then you cannot speak, Sarah,” she sobbed on her shoulder; 
“and in your place I would be silent too.” 

Wrath and authority, threats and bribes, had all failed to shake 
Sarah’s resolution in the least, but these few tender words made her 
heart tremble. 

“ If I dared to ask a blessing upon anybody,” she said chokingly, 
“I would pray for one on your dear head now. Your goodness 
makes me a better woman ; your pity helps me to endure the misery 
that is mine.” 

“I shall not torture you any more. We will go away; but when 
others blame you and scorn you, take courage in knowing that there 
is at least one who understands you.” 


A HARD KNOT. 227 

Sht made a movement as if to withdraw, but Sarah held her 
tightly in her arms. 

“Not yet; you shall not go until you know that I am not the in- 
famous thing our father believes me to bo. Before you came to me 
to-day I had resolved that Mr. Tavendale should be saved for your 
sake, come what might. But first I have another duty to do, and 
when I succeed or when I fail in that, all the proof that I can give 
to clear your husband will be placed in your hands. Now go ; it is 
better for us both that we should part at once.” 

Katie could not answer this; she could only kiss her passionately 
and obey her. 

Mr. Lyon had heard partly what had passed with much amaze- 
ment at the singular change in the woman who had been so ob- 
durate. 

Mr. Cargill, who had heard nothing but the murmur of whisper- 
ing voices, sat, astounded and indignant, gazing at liis daughters. 
When Katie came to him and took his hand to lead him from the 
place, he rose wrathfully. 

“ She still refuses?” he ejaculated. 

“She cannot answer us now, father. Don’t be angry with her, 
she has sorrow to bear as well as we. Give her time; by and by 
she will do all that you would wish. ” 

He advanced stiffly to where Sarah stood, again with hands clasped, 
head bowed, calm and inscrutable as before. 

“By and by will be too late. You must answer now, or take the 
consequences of my displeasure and of the law’s penalty.” 

“I have said all that I can say, sir.” 

He raised his hand tremblingly, and touched her on the shoulder, 
with a movement as if'he were thrusting her from him. 

‘ ‘ Obstinate ! Have your own way, but understand you have for- 
feited every claim to the consideration of honest men and women. 
More, you have forfeited every claim to my pity or pardon. Hence- 
forth you are as one dead to me — shame, beggary, starvation, may 
fall upon you, and 1 will turn from your cries for help as callously 
as you have turned from our appeals to-day. I will turn from you 
in your misery with a loathing that I would not feel for the most 
loathsome creature that Heaven permits to crawl the earth.” 

She shrank under his touch— she bowed her head low before the 
almost solemn wrath with which he banished her from his heart for- 
ever; but she only answered passively: 

“I can die.” 

He turned his back upon her, utterly indifferent to her words ; in- 
deed, he seemed not to have heard them at all. He extended his 
arm to Katie, and, erect and stern, he led her to the door. 

Mr. Lyon, however, had heard the words, and coupling them with 


228 


A HARD KNOT. 


what little he had heard her say to Katie, they increased his pity for 
the unhappy position in which she was placed, and he remained be- 
hind a few minutes to speak to her.- 

“I cannot address you, madam, as perhaps my official capacity 
would require me; but I am here as Mr. Cargill’s friend, not as a 
magistrate. Permit me to be your friend also. ” 

“You are very kind, sir.” 

“I have no desire to endeavor to force from you the information 
you refuse to give your father and your sister, but as your friend I 
wish to warn you that you are placing yourself in a very dangerous 
position. The charge which is made against Mr. Hewitt is the 
gravest that can be made against any human creature. You are 
running the risk of being charged as his accomplice, and that means, 
perhaps, transportation, possibly death, to you.” 

“I am grateful to you, sir, but my course is taken — I cannot al- 
ter it.” 

Mr. Lyon bowed, and followed his friends. 


CHAPTER XLVI. 

ALICK TAVENDALE’s STATEMENT. 

When Mr. Lyon got outside the house Katie was watching for 
him at the window of the carriage. He stepped up to her. 

“Can you take me to see Mr. Tavendale now?” she queried bash- 
fully; “ my father is to go with us.” 

. “ Certainly, at once.” 

Mr. Lyon mounted his horse, which the footman had been holding, 
and, preceding the carriage, rode to the prison. 

The gray, gloomy walls, the rows of narrow, iron-barred windows, 
frightened Katie and made her tremble. But as the gate opened be- 
fore Mr. Lyon, and permitted them to enter, she was almost reassured 
when she saw that the warders and turnkeys, save for their uni- 
forms, were very ordinary-looking men; very civil and very respect- 
ful on the present occasion. For all that there was a close, unpleas- 
ant atmosphere about the place, which made her heart leap as she 
saw the massive gate swing to when they had entered, and heard the 
key grating harshly in the big lock. She experienced a gasping sen- 
sation, as if the place were too confined to permit her to breathe. ' 
She was disturbed by the silly fancy that she would never be able to 
get to the bright side of those high walls again ; and she sickened at 
the thought that Alick Tavendale had been all this time pent up in 
one of those dingy little holes, from which the prison-builders seemed 
almost to have wished to exclude the daylight itself. 


A HARD KNOT. 


229 


Everything around her seemed to he made of dingy gray stone and 
hard black iron ; and she wondered if the jailers’ hearts were made 
of the same materials. At any rate, it seemed to her that, living 
among these things, they could not help their natures partaking 
something of the character of the grim shadows which were always 
looming over them. 

She was relieved only when the door was thrown o])en, and her 
dismal thoughts were dispelled only wdien she heard Tavendale’s 
voice pronounce her name in astonishment and joy, and felt his 
hands touching hers. 

He had been pacing the floor perturbedly, speculating upon the re- 
sult of the events in which he had become involved, when the sound 
of the opening door attracted his attention. Then, at sight of her, 
the full blaze of the sun itself seemed to flash into his face, blinding 
and dazzling him with gladness, and he could only shout “Katie!” 
and embrace her. 

He did not observe her father or Mr. Lyon until she, remembering 
their presence, blushingly disengaged herself from him and directed 
his attention to them. 

As soon as he saw Mr. Cargill he stood looking awkwardly from 
him to Katie, as if seeking an explanation of this unexpected visit. 

There was nothing of the criminal in his appearance. He was 
pale, and there were signs of intense agitation on his visage, but 
there was no shade of that gloomy despondency which marks the 
bearing of one who knows himself to be guilty, and dreads the issue 
of the trial which he waits. He seemed now to be thinking more of 
what the presence of Mr. Cargill meant than of the grave charge of 
which Mr. Lyon’s presence reminded him. 

Katie was the first to break the awkward silence which ensued. 

“My father knows everything, Alick; he knew everything on the 
day you were first examined, and he is trying to save you. I told 
you he was good and kind. We should have trusted him from the 
first, not deceived him as we have done. ” 

Tavendale still paused, regarding Mr. Lyon doubtfully. 

“ He knows everything, too,” said Katie, understanding his glance ; 
“ and you may speak as freely before him as before me.’' 

Tavendale did not seem to be quite satisfied of that. However, 
after a long silence, he said : 

“When I persuaded your daughter to marry me secretly, it was at 
a moment when we both thought that your wealth, your name, be- 
longed to another. I understand that you have acknowledged that 
claim; and when I am released, you will find that I can work for 
my wife, and prove to you that I had no thought 'of your fortune 
when I sought her. You will find — ” 

“Enough, sir, ’’said Mr. Cargill, coldly, and not altogether pleased 


230 


A HAKD KNOT. 


by the manner in which he had been interrupted when he had first 
begun to speak ; “my daughter’s position is unaltered.” 

“Unaltered ? — then the letters were forgeries?” 

“I have hinted, sir, that this is not a time for explaining these 
matters. When my daughter’s husband is safe from the gallows, 
there will be time enough for recrimination on both sides. Mean- 
while our presence here concerns the dangers of your position only.” 

“I have no fear for myself, sir; I know that I am innocent, and 
now that our marriage is known, I can give those explanations wdiicli 
will satisfy the law, and regarding which my silence was the chief 
argument against me.” 

“It is to rec^ve those explanations that I am here,” said Mr. 
Lyon. 

In answer to Mr. Lyon’s questions he thereupon gave a clear 
statement of every circumstance which had tended so much to ren- 
der his conduct suspicious, and to give the charge against him an 
apparently strong foundation so long as the motives of his action re- 
mained unknown. 

“ During Mr. Cargill’s absence, as you know. Miss Burnett called 
at Mavisbank. Katie had no one to whom she could tell the strange 
story she heard then save myself. She shrank from writing about 
it to her father, lest the shock might overwhelm him while he was 
away from her. The subject w^as of too delicate a nature for her to 
mention it to you, Mr. Lyon; and so there was no one left to advise 
her but me. 

‘ ‘ When she made the revelation to me, it recalled vaguely to my 
mind some things I had heard my mother say about a Mrs. Burnett, 
with whom Mr, Cargill had been mysteriously associated. As Katie 
w^as satisfied that the letters she had read had been written by her 
father’s hand, that fact, combined wdth the memory of my mother’s 
words, made me give credence to the story perhaps too readily. 

“ I became alarmed for the unhappy position in which Katie w^ould 
be placed; I believed that an opportunity had come when I, poor as 
I was, might be able to shield her from shame, and that I might 
prove to her father that all his wealth had no share in my regard for 
her. I told her that there was only one means of rescuing her from 
the disgrace that seemed to threaten her, and that was by becoming 
my wife. She was frightened and vexed by my proposition at first, 
but after two days my arguments prevailed — she consented. 

“It was on the twelfth of the month that she told me of Sarah 
Burnett’s claim, and on the fourteenth w^e were married by license. 
I wish here, sir, to be as minute as possible in every detail of my 
conduct during these few days, as I understand the evidence re- 
garding it given by my landlady has had some influence against me. 
Knowing what I heard on the twelfth, you wfill have no difficulty in 


A HAKD KNOT. 


231 


understanding the state of nervous excitement I was in that night 
and the following day. You see, it will account for everything I 
did that seemed so strange to Mrs, Marshall and her servant. 

“ I was absent from the office two days — in fact, three days, from 
the thirteenth. I only called there to see if there were any letters. 
The cause of my absence was a simple one: I was too much excited 
to attend to any business; and, besides, I was busy seeking a house, 
and preparing it to receive my wife at the first moment when the expos- 
ure came. All this I had to do secretly, in order to avoid hastening 
the catastrophe. Hence the mysterious character of my conduct. 

“ I found a small cottage near Bowling which promised to afford 
us seclusion and comfort, and I took it for a year. The landlord’s 
name is John McCallum, and he resides at Bowling. You will easi- 
ly find him and he will corroborate what I say, and give you the 
dates of my visits to him. 

“Next, I had to furnish the cottage, and on that account I was 
much occupied with Messrs. Go wan Brothers, furniture - dealers, 
How^ard Street. Before they would execute my order they required 
me to place in their hands a hundred pounds, and they would give 
me credit for the rest. Of that sum I w^as five pounds short, and I 
borrowed the amount from Mrs. Marshall. She had lent me money 
before, and I thought she was least likely to suspect my purpose. I 
rolled the notes up together and placed them in an envelope for 
Messrs. Gowan. 

“ I decided to acquaint Mr, Cargill with the important step I had 
taken by letter, in the first place. I had little fear now of what he 
might say, as I calculated that he would be too much afflicted by the 
exposure to deal over-harshly with me. But I felt much delicacy in 
approaching the subject to him; and I wrote more than a dozen let- 
ters, and burned them as fast as they were written, before I could 
produce one to please me. In prospect of speedily leaving my lodg- 
ings I began to arrange my things and to get rid of a heap of useless 
letters, and I burned them. These w'ere the documents I destroyed, 
without ever dreaming that the destruction of them would draw so 
much suspicion upon me. 

“ There are only two more items of importance to which it is nec- 
essary for me to refer. On the Saturday previous to the murder I 
called at the house of the woman Jean Gorbal. I had been there 
once before with a message from Mr. Cargill, and so I knew the 
place. I had to call several times before I saw her, and when I did 
see her I could obtain no satisfaction from her. She laughed strange- 
ly as I spoke to her, and one observation struck me as singularly odd. 
She said, ‘ One may as well have it as another for me, and the one 
that tries most gets most.’ 

“I attributed her odd words and manner to the effects of drink, 


232 


A HARD KNOT. 


and so left her, dissatisfied with the result I had obtained, and deter- 
mined to see her again as soon as Mr. Cargill returned. But my in- 
terview with her had left me exceedingly anxious, and I desired to 
speak to my wife as speedily as possible. Our cottage was to be 
ready in three days, and I had thought of persuading her to go to 
the place that was now her home even before her father’s arrival. 

“On the day on which the murder appears to have been com- 
mitted I sent Mrs. Marshall’s son with a note to Mavisbank, begging 
Katie to consent to my new proposal, or at any rate to see me that 
evening. The lad came back without any answer. I thought she 
was angry with me, and I was agitated by her silence. By and by, 
however, a man came with a note from her, directing me to meet her 
at dusk in the garden at Mavisbank, and I was there at a quarter 
past six o’clock. 

“I had to climb the wall, as we were unable to open the door. 
Our conversation was one of the greatest importance to both of us, 
and it was nearly twelve o’clock before we parted. The issue of that 
interview between us was that she not only refused decisively to 
leave her father’s house until he had been informed of her marriage, 
but she begged me not to send the letter I had written to him. With 
the generous courage she always shows when there is trouble to be 
encountered, she wished to be the first to tell her father of what had 
happened, and to brave his anger. But, before doing that, she wished 
to see how he would be affected by the exposure which was immi- 
nent. She therefore desired me to leave it entirely to her discretion 
to decide upon the time when she should disclose our relationship. 
She charged me neither to speak nor to write about the subject with- 
out first having obtained her permission. She adopted this course 
not because she wished to delay the discovery of her error — if, under 
tlie circumstances, you could call it error — to her father; but be- 
cause, fearing that he might be annoyed in learning that she was my 
wife, and knowing that he would be distressed by Miss Burnett’s dis- 
closure, she wished to spare him as much as possible any knowledge 
that might add to his affliction. 

“She commanded me to be silent, under any circumstances, until 
she had spoken. It was with bitter reluctance that I promised to obey 
her, but I did promise, and I have faithfully observed it, as you know. 

“I was nervously excited by what had passed and by the prospect 
of what was to come ; and instead of going home straight, I took a 
long walk round by the Kelvin. It was a disagreeable night of rain 
and wind; but I did not mind that, for the exercise seemed to 
soothe me. It was nearly three o’clock in the morning when I 
reached my lodgings. My landlady had waited for me, and seemed 
to be surprised by my appearance. I was vexed that she should 
have observed my disturbed manner, and that I had put her to the 


A HARD KNOT. 


233 


inconvenience of sitting up so late for me. My reason for asking if 
the door had been fastened was not because I heard the policeman 
passing, but because I wished to save trouble by doing it for her, as 
I had been accustomed to do Avhenever I happened to be the last to 
enter the house. I had walked the last mile or two very slowly, and 
felt cold in my wet clothes, so that I shivered a little when I spoke 
to her. During the next day I did not feel well, and that, combined 
with the very fretful nature of my thoughts, rendered my humor 
none of the best. 

“It was late that night before I became aware of Jean Gorbal’s 
fate ; and after the first shock of horror I own that I experienced a 
feeling something akin to relief, in the hope that her death would 
either prevent the threatened exposure altogether, or at any rate 
would considerably reduce its consequence. But, believe me, sir, 
that cruel as the feeling may seem to you, it affected me not with 
any view to my own advantage, but wholly on account of the 
relief I calculated the woman’s death would give to Katie and 
her father in sparing them the shame that was about to fall upon 
them. 

■ “I have now given you a full explanation of my conduct. You 
can understand why I was silent regarding the manner in which I 
spent the evening of the crime. But do not think that I had any 
foolish thought of sacrificing my life in order to be faithful to the 
promise I had given to my wife. I knew that as soon as she be- 
came aware of my predicament she would hesitate at no step that 
was necessary to release me. I therefore only waited until she had 
time to speak. She has spoken, as I knew she would, and I suppose 
that there can be little doubt now of my innocence.” 

“ I should like to know how Mr. Hewitt came to be your agent,” 
struck in Mr. Lyon, after a pause. 

“ I became acquainted with him some time ago through Mackie 
and Milne, two clerks in Mr. Cargill’s office. He used to come up 
to my lodgings occasionally with them. I was somewhat an enthu- 
siast in the exercises of fencing and boxing, and Hewitt frequently 
practised foil-play with me. I think it was on the last occasion that 
they were up, previous to my arrest, that the foil was broken which 
has been used in evidence against me.” 

“ Did you mention that before?” queried Mr. Lyon. 

“Yes, I think I mentioned it to Hadden when he arrested me. 
However, I merely tell you this to show you that Hewitt was some- 
what familiarly acquainted with me, and I liked him very much. 
As soon as he heard of my arrest on this charge, he came to me 
and insisted that I should permit him to act as my agent, as a mat- 
ter of friendship and free of all cost. He told me that he had no 
doubt he would be able to pull me through; and although at the 


234 


A HARD KNOT. 


time I had no thought of employing any agent, and did not consid- 
er it necessary, I consented to let him act for me.” 

“I begin to see his course quite clearly. You will be surprised 
to learn that the man who is suspected of being the real criminal is 
Hewitt. ” 

“Impossible!” cried Tavendale, astounded. 

But Mr. Lyon speedily put him in possession of the principal facts 
which had come to light, and his amazement changed to convic- 
tion. 

“ Then he must have taken away the broken portion of the foil, 
which could not be found,” cried Tavendale. 

“It has been discovered in his office. Now I think we may leave 
you, and before many days have passed J think you may calculate 
upon being a free man with an unblemished character. You have 
sincere friends working on your behalf.” 

“ I am sure of that,” said the prisoner; and then, hesitatingly, he 
turned to the millionaire: “ And you, Mr. Cargill, are you satisfied? 
May I hope that my offence to you in secretly marrying your daugh- 
ter is not unpardonable?”- 

Mr. Cargill slowly extended his hand, which Tavendale clasped 
in his eagerly, and the male visitors left the cell. As they did so, 
Mr. Cargill offered his arm to his daughter to take her with him; 
but Mr. Lyon, with a quiet smile, took his arm and led him out of 
the cell, saying, “ Your daughter will follow us presently.” 

“Katie, you never doubted me!” cried Tavendale as soon as they 
were alone, scanning her features with eager delight; “everybody 
thought me either a great fool or a great rascal, but I knew that you 
would come to my rescue. I knew that you would light up the 
darkness that had fallen upon me, and you have done it, my dar- 
ling!” 

As a comment upon this she was favored with an enthusiastic 
hug, and for several seconds she found it impossible to speak, her 
lips being otherwise fully occupied. At length, however, she did 
manage to obtain freedom enough to say reproachfully: 

“ But Alick, Alick, why did you not send for me the instant you 
were placed in danger?” 

“ Well, I did send for you as soon as it was possible to do so.” 

“You did send — when and whom?” this with such a pretty look 
of alarmed surprise that she only narrowly escaped falling into the 
lion’s clutches again. 

“ Hewitt.” 

“ He never came to me.” 

“ I sent him twice — the infernal scoundrel! — and his answer to me 
on both occasions was that you were ill, confined to your room, and 
could not be seen by any one. I had told him not to give my note 


A HARD KNOT. 


235 


to any one except yourself, and so his answer, while it alarmed me 
for your health, satisfied me that he had made the attempt to fulfil 
his mission.” 

“Did he return the letter to you?” 

“ No, he kept it to make a third attempt to see you; and, if he 
failed, then he was to intrust it to Easton.” 

“I do not believe he ever made the attempt to see me — and yet I 
have been ill, and he must have been at the house to have learned 
that — I believe he has opened the letter. What did you say in it?” 

“ I only mentioned that the one difficulty in my case was that of 
proving where I spent the evening of the fifteenth.” 

“ It was enough to make him desire to prevent you communicat- 
ing with me, fearing that the proof of your innocence would en- 
danger his own safety. ” 

“Well, who cares now? I don’t; and, faith, as things have 
turned*out, I am not sure — nay, I am quite sure, that all the troiible 
I have endured was worth the bearing, since it gives me you. Ah, 
my lass, I am a careless, stupid fellow, but I think there are few 
things the strongest or wisest man could bear that I would not bear 
for your saka” 

At that point, as she saw him about to become gloomy and serious, 
with some vague sense of his own unworthiness of so much happi- 
ness, she placed her little hand on his mouth and stopped him, smil- 
ing; 

“ They have been dark days for all of us, Alick, but we are get- 
ting into the sunlight now.” 


CHAPTER XLVII. 

A MODEL POST-OFFICE. 

Mr. Hadden had made all his arrangements with that nervous 
promptitude which characterized him. Although he had yielded so 
far to his great liking for Sarah — a liking which had a degree of the 
element of love in it — to warn her that if she were not careful she 
would become the main instrument in effecting Hewitt’s capture, 
he had placed his men before he had called upon her. 

He had one man at the bank in the garb of a porter, and he had 
another in Hill Street. At the latter place he had also left Willie, 
as it was the most important point of observation. He himself kept 
constantly moving between the two traps. 

The day passed without any result. Hewitt had not appeared at 
the bank or Hill Street, and neither had any one who could be sus- 
pected of being a messenger of his been seen. 


236 


A HAED KNOT. 


He was not at all surprised at this. He did not expect the capt- 
ure to be an easy one or a speedy one. At the hour when the bank 
closed, however, he learned from the manager that an order written 
by Mr. Cargill for two thousand pounds had been cashed early in 
the forenoon. 

“ By whom?” cried Hadden, startled and confounded. 

‘ ‘ By Cargill & Co. ’s cashier, ” answered the manager. 

Hadden drew breath again. Clearly that could not be the order 
Hewitt held. The fact that the amount had been the same, how- 
ever, rendered him somewhat uneasy, and he began to fear that he 
had made another blunder in not having placed a watch on Mr. 
Cargill’s office. 

Thither he hastened now, and W'as just in time to see the cashier 
before he left for the day. To his inquiry as to whether the order 
which had been drawn by Mr. Cargill was in the way of business or 
not, he received the reply: 

“No, it was to meet the expenses on behalf of poor Tavendale.” 

“Who presented it?” 

“ Tavendale’s agent, Hewitt, this morning. He was here when I 
arrived, and as he told me that the money was wanted immediately, 
I went to the bank for it myself, and he waited here till I re- 
turned.” 

Hadden’s jaw dropped with astonishment at the unexampled 
boldness and coolness of the criminal, and with chagrin at his own 
stupidity. He said nothing of that to his informant. As soon as 
he had recovered himself he only asked in what form the money 
had been paid. 

“By his express desire I got two hundred in gold, and the rest in 
Bank of England notes of fives, tens, and twenties.” 

“ Have you got the numbers?” 

“ Yes; but why are you so curious about the matter?” 

“Give me the numbers,” said Hadden, excitedly. “ Hewitt is un- 
der suspicion, and we wish to trace him; the notes may help us.” 

His request was complied with, and he departed. He was en- 
raged with himself; but, unfortunate as the oversight had been, it 
left one thing clear; his conclusion was correct that Hewitt had not 
left the city. 

There was no saying when he would start now that he had got 
the money. So Hadden despatched a man to Edinburgh with a 
copy of the numbers of the notes, and a brief report of what had 
happened, to Mactier. Then he placed men at every railway sta- 
tion, at every wharf, and along every omnibus route. He was cer- 
tain that Hewitt would rather intrust himself to a public convey- 
ance than to a private one. Nevertheless, he caused every posting- 
house in the city to be visited, and the proprietors warned to send 


A HARD KNOT. 


237 


instant notice to the police in the event of any gentleman without 
companions desiring to hire a conveyance. 

“ Now,” he muttered, “there is only one chance left for him, and 
that is to get clear of the city on foot.” 

He relieved the man who had been placed at Hill Street, and left 
two in his stead, who were not to lose sight of the door of Sarah 
Burnett’s house during the whole night. 

It was after midnight before he withdrew himself, and he was 
up next morning by daybreak. He had told his men to send for 
him the moment anything suspicious occurred, or any suspicious 
person was observed. But he was not disturbed on this account. 

The same vigilant watch was preserved all that day and the en- 
suing night. Still without result. The only persons who called at 
Hill Street during the day were the milkman, the grocer, the col- 
lector of water-rate, and the undertaker, with three of his men, who 
brought the coffin for Mrs. Burnett. There could be no particular 
suspicion attached to any of them. 

On the third morning Hadden met the postman about a hundred 
yards from the house in Hill Street. He stopped the man, as he had 
done several times already. 

“Any letters for Miss Burnett this morning?” 

“Yes, one.” 

“ Show it me.” 

The man had been made aware of his authority, and therefore did 
not hesitate to show him the letter. 

It was addressed in a round, open penmanship, with various wav- 
ering lines, several of which had been retouched to complete the 
form of the letters. This labor displayed the effort on the part of 
the writer to disguise the real character of his penmanship. But in 
spite of the disguise — or, rather, in consequence of it— -the detective 
identified the calligraphy as that of Hewitt. The post-mark was 
Edinburgh ; the date that of the day previous, showing when and 
where it had been posted. 

Hadden returned the letter to the postman, and as the latter pro- 
ceeded to deliver it, the baffled detective clasped his hands on 
his staff behind him, and moved slowly and meditatively up the 
street. 

The evidence before him now seemed to indicate clearly that spite 
of all his efforts the fugitive had eluded him, and was now either in 
the hands of Mactier or across the Channel. He was utterly per- 
plexed; all his vigilance had been so far in vain, and apparently 
there was nothing for him to do but to start at once for the capital 
and take up the track there. 

And yet he hesitated. At the corner of St. George’s Koad he 
came to an abrupt halt. He struck his staff upon the pavement 


208 


A HARD KNOT. 


with so much vehemence that two or three passengers paused to 
stare at him. He wheeled about, and slowly retraced his steps. 

“ No,” he muttered; “I’ll stay where I am. He had no intention 
of going to Edinburgh, or he would never have told Nicol Ogg that 
he was going there. This letter is another ruse to mislead us. On 
the day he got the money he sent that letter to some friend in Ed- 
inburgh who has posted it for him. There has been plenty of time 
for that trick to have been played. He is here yet, waiting till we 
are thrown olf the scent, and then he will have a clear course to get 
away in the opposite direction. ” 

A few steps forward and he halted again. 

‘ ‘ There is one means of proving whether or not he told Ogg the 
truth. If that draft he gave him was a forgery h§ would have as 
much reason for misleading him as to his whereabouts as us.” 

He made another journey to Mr. Cargill’s office, and there learned 
that a draft exactly similar to the one which had been cashed for 
Hewitt had been presented at the bank by one Nicol Ogg, and dis- 
covered to be a forgery. 

Hadden returned to his post in Hill Street satisfied. 

He found one of his seouts waiting for him with the information 
that from all quarters reports had been brought in that nothing had 
been seen of their prey. Every hotel and tavern, every lodging- 
house, from the most respectable down to the most disreputable 
in the town, had been searched without revealing the remotest 
trace, 

Hadden told his satellite to keep all the men at their posts, and 
to repeat the hunt through the lodging-houses later in the even- 
ing. 

Hadden had been for some time aware that Hewitt calculated the 
effect of every step he took with geometrical precision, and he now 
began to realize the principle upon which he made these calcula- 
tions. 

His system w^as simply to do wdiatever seemed too bold and too 
certain to result in detection for any man in his position to do. He 
knew that his pursuers w^ere accustomed to work in particular 
grooves; that they calculated — ninety-nine times out of a hundred, 
perhaps, correctly— that wdiat one rascal had done before, the next 
would repeat. Hewdtt was the hundredth rascal, how^ever, and 
wdiatever seemed the most improbable for him to do under the cir- 
cumstances was just the course he adopted. 

“That’s his system,” ejaculated Hadden to himself, fretfully; 
“and at this moment there is not the least doubt he is laughing in 
his sleeve at us in some hiding-place under our noses; and just be- 
cause it is under our noses w^e can’t see it. AVhere is the most un- 
likely of all places that he might be? that is the question. If I 


A HAP.D KNOT. ' 239 

could answer that, I could lay my hands upon him in half an 
hour.” 

As, however, he could not answer that important question, al- 
though he cudgelled his brains all day to find it, he was obliged to 
wait till some lucky event suggested it to him; and he devoted him- 
self to a close observance of what were apparently the most com-, 
monplace circumstances, and of the most ordinary people. 

About dusk he went home for dinner; he had been too much oc- 
cupied during the day to think of it earlier. He had scarcely sat 
down to it when Willie rushed into the apartment. 

Hadden jumped up. 

“ There’s somebody come out of the house!” cried the lad. 

“ Who — who?” 

“A woman, a’ in black, and a veil over her face. I think it’s 
hersel’. ” 

By “hersel’ ” he meant Miss Burnett. Hadden seized his hat and 
staff and hurried out with Willie, who led him in the direction in 
which he had seen the lady walk — namely, along Sauchiehall 
Street. 

She had been walking very slowly, and the pursuers soon had 
her in view. 

Hadden experienced many twinges of conscience in playing the 
spy upon Sarah; but he compressed his lips and tried to soothe 
himself by the reflection that if she were to be the instrument of 
justice she made herself so in spite of his warning. That being so, 
he must curb whatever compunctions he might feel for her sake, 
and do his duty for Alick Tavendale’s sake. 

Sarah seemed to be altogether unconscious that her movements 
were observed. She halted at two or three shops and gazed for a 
few moments at the windows, when it was possible that she might, 
by a side - glance, have scanned the route she had traversed; but 
otherwise she did not turn her head, or show any anxiety as to the 
possibility of being followed. 

She turned up St. George’s Road, and, still walking very slowly, 
proceeded to the Cowcaddens. It might be that she had no object 
in view; that she was merely taking a walk, which would account 
for the roundabout route she followed, and for her leisurely pace. 

Hadden fervently prayed that it might be so, for he would rather 
have endured a thousand times more annoyance in the pursuit of 
Hewitt than he had done, or was likely to do, than arrest him by 
means of her. But his wish was denied him, for when she got into 
the Cowcaddens it became evident that she had a motive for this 
stroll in the gloaming. Instead of turning towards home she moved 
in the direction of Port-Dundas. That, of all places, Hadden thought 
she would have avoided. 


240 


A HARD KNOT. 


Worse and worse, she seemed to be steadily moving in the direc- 
tion of the late Jean Gorbal’s house. The unhappy detective, whose 
affection pulled him one way and whose duty pulled him another, 
was relieved when she altered her course, by suddenly branching 
to the right up a narrow lane. 

The daylight was rapidly fading, and in this lane, with its dingy 
little houses, it became difficult to keep her in sight without ap- 
proaching her too closely. Here Sarah quickened her pace for the 
first time, as if she were near the end of some unpleasant journey, 
and eager to get it over. 

Near the head of the lane, where it was crossed by a street run- 
ning at right angles up to the canal and down to the main thorough- 
fare, she suddenly disappeared. 

Willie ran forward to the place where they had lost sight of her. 
He found himself opposite a weaver’s shop, from which proceeded the 
din of busy shuttles: beside the weaver’s door was a low, dark close. 
Above the mouth of the close was a small signboard, about three 
feet long and two feet broad, bearing the inscription, 

“John Waddell, Boot and Shoe Maker, 

Repairs Neatly Executed” 

The bottom of this signboard was close to the wall, while the top 
projected about four inches. The shoemaker’s window was imme- 
diately above, and amid the din of the shuttles was heard the clatter 
of his hammer on the lapstone. 

As Willie approached the close he observed in the dim light of 
the place a white hand thrust out to the corner of the signboard. It 
rested there a moment, and then withdrew quickly. 

Willie darted into the weaver’s doorway, and straightened himself 
against the wall. 

Sarah Burnett passed out of the close, proceeded in the direction 
of the cross street, and disappeared round the corner. 

When Willie had assured himself of that, he ran back to Mr. Had- 
den and brought him to the place. 

The detective, with a stifling sensation in his throat, put up his 
hand to the corner of the signboard, and between it and the wall felt 
a paper. Once more for her sake he hesitated to draw down what 
he knew must be a letter to Hewitt; and again for Tavendale’s sake 
he forced himself to the task. He drew out the letter from this 
strange post-office. There was no address on the envelope, which 
was only closed with gum. The detective wetted with his tongue 
the gummed edges, and speedily succeeded in opening it without 
tearing the paper. 

He left Willie standing at the close while he walked on to the 
nearest street lamp. There he succeeded in deciidiering the contents 


A HARD KNOT. 


241 


of the fatal missive. They were very brief, Vtithoiit address or date 
of any kind. 

“The house is still watched. Your trick has apparently failed 
to deceive the person whom you most wish out of the way. He 
seems to understand your purpose in lurking here. Change your 
plan and escape to-night. Let me know when you are safe.” 

Hadden, with trembling hands, refolded the letter, replaced it in 
the envelope, and fastened it. Then he returned to the shoemaker’s 
sign, and put the letter back where he found it. Nobody had been 
there during his absence. 

By what means this plan of communication had been arranged he 
could not guess, but its cunning made him almost regret that such a 
clever fellow as Hewitt was doomed to be hanged. 

Now, where was his hiding-place? Somewhere near, because he 
must come for this letter, and he would not unnecessarily expose 
himself by too long a journey. The area of speculation was now 
limited, but still the answer was difficult to find. 

Hadden passed through the close, taking Willie with him, and 
seated himself on the outside stair which led up to the dwelling of 
the shoemaker whose sign had been forced into such singular ser- 
vice. 

Hadden remained upon the watch while he despatched Willie to 
bring Inspector Speirs and half a dozen men. It should not be for 
want of force that the culprit escaped this time. 

The lad was absent for more than three or four hours, and during 
that period nobody called at the post-office of which the detective 
was the guardian. Waiting alone in the darkness, his mind was 
busy with the problem as to the hiding-place. Suddenly he bounded 
to his feet with a smothered ejaculation of mingled triumph and 
horror. 

“ Thunder ! Heavens above! it cannot be possible! Yet it’s just 
the place that he w^ould go to— he has courage or anything — and it’s 
just the place where nobody would ever suspect him of being, 
klewitt’s hiding-place is in Jean Gorbal’s house.” 

The house of the unfortunate woman was near this place where 
Hewitt had to call for his letters ; it was locked up and the keys in 
custody, which circumstance, combined with the fact of the crime hav- 
ing been perpetrated there, would promise him almost perfect immuni- 
ty from discovery. As to getting in, he would have no difficulty in 
forcing an entrance, and no mere superstitious qualms of conscience 
would be strong enough to prevent him from availing himself of 
such advantages. 

Improbable as the theory seemed, it was worth putting to the 
test. 


11 


242 


A HARD KNOT. 


CHAPTER XL VIII. 

FIGHTING IT OUT. 

It was nearly nine o’clock when Willie rejoined his chief. He 
brought with him Inspector Speirs and six men. The inspector 
had been out seeing that the detectives were at their respective 
posts, and Willie had been obliged to seek him nearly all over the 
town. That was the cause of the delay. 

The moment Hadden saw Speirs he rushed towards him excit- 
edly. 

“Where are the keys of Jean Gorbal’s house?” he cried. 

“ At the station-house — what do you want wdth them?” exclaimed 
the inspector, amazed by the manner of the demand as well as the 
nature of it. 

“ Our man is there — in that house. Send one of the men for the 
keys, and tell him to follow us to the house.” 

The inspeetor stared at him as if he thought that his senses had 
fairly forsaken him ; but presently he obeyed his command, and pre- 
pared himself to accompany Hadden. The latter had already told 
the men to separate, and meet at the house at which the murder had 
been perpetrated with as much speed as possible. He bade Willie 
run on before, 

Speirs took his arm and walked with him down the lane. 

One by one the men arrived. Hadden sent two of them round to 
the back of the house, placed two more at the windows, and reserved 
the others for the door. 

He crept to the door himself first ; he peered through the keyhole, 
but discovered no gleam of light within. Next he listened breath- 
lessly, straining his sense of hearing till the tympanum of his ear 
seemed about to crack. 

He withdrew suddenly and rejoined Speirs, who, by the help of a 
lamp close by, was enabled to see that his features were quivering 
with excitement. 

“He’s there!” he gasped; “he’s there! We have him at last. 
Where are the keys?” 

“What!” ejaculated the inspector, “hiding where he murdered 
the woman!” 

Hadden clapped his hand on the man’s mouth. 


A HARD KNOT. 


243 


“Thunder!” he growled, in a suppressed tone; “will you hold 
your noise? he’ll hear you.” 

Speirs now became satisfied that there Avas some meaning in the 
detective’s mad notion. He crept to the door himself, listened, and 
came away convinced. 

The man arrived with the keys, and Hadden snatched them from 
him. 

“How,” he said, “get your batons ready, for you’ll need them. 
Keep your eyes open, for if he once breaks through us he’ll give us 
the slip in the darkness. Knock him down at the first rush he 
makes. ” 

With the men close behind him, their teeth clinched for a sharp 
tussle, he again advanced to the door. As stealthily as possible he 
placed the key in the lock, turned it, and pushed with all his might. 

But the door did not move. 

“‘He has it barricaded,” growled Hadden, furiously. “ Look to 
the windows! One of you run to the smith’s shop and get ham- 
mers. Bring the smith with you.” 

His rapid directions were as rapidly obeyed; and in the mean- 
while, waiting the arrival of the smith, he knocked authoritatively 
on the door. 

“Laurence Hewitt, in the name of the law, I charge you, open!” 
he said loudly. 

There was no response. The summons was repeated twice with- 
out effect. 

“ Yield yourself prisoner,” cried Hadden again ; “escape is impos- 
sible; the house is surrounded, and in five minutes we will be upon 
you in spite of your barricade. Do you hear, man? It is madness 
to attempt resistance.” 

There was no answer to this either for several minutes, and by 
that time the smith had arrived with a couple of sledgehammers. 

Dark as it was, a crowd was beginning to gather with that myste- 
rious rapidity with which crowds grow at any scene of excitement, 
however out of the way. 

Speirs seized one of the hammers and struck the first blow vdth a 
vigorous hand. As the sound of the blow rang through the house 
with a dismal sound, there was a movement heard within, as if a ta- 
ble had been upset on the floor. 

Then a voice was heard, resolute and fierce, that awed the people 
around into breathless silence, coming as it did in the darkness from 
a place of such ghastly associations. 

“Stop, Hadden,” cried the voice, “and listen to me. You have 
run me to bay once more ; but if you or those with you care for life 
you will stop where you are. I know that my capture means death, 
and I prefer to die before being captured. I tell you and those with 


244 


A HARD KNOT. 


you I hold six of your lives in my hand, and I will take them piti- 
lessly if you persist in attacking me. Every blow you strike at that 
door is the death-knell of one of you,” 

“ Do you submit?” shouted Hadden. 

“ Do you desist?” retorted Hewitt, quite coolly, and there was the 
sharp click as of the raising of a pistol-hammer. 

“We must do our duty.” 

“Do it then, and take the consequences. I have warned you,” 

“ Strike!” shouted Hadden; “down with the door!” 

The men hesitated, however, and the blacksmith flung down his 
hammer. 

“You can do as you like yersel’, but I’m no gaun to meddle wi’ that 
chap onyway,” he said, as he drew back among the gaping crowd. 

Hadden snatched up the hammer the man had dropped and at- 
tacked the door, shouting as he did so : 

“ Strike, Speirs, if you’ve got the pluck of a sparrow!” 

The crowd raised a shout of encouragement and admiration, and 
the inspector, who was no coward, although he had hesitated at 
the threat of the desperate man within, was incited by his com- 
rade’s example, and joined with a will in battering down the door. 
The timbers soon began to crack and give w^ay. But as the upper 
half of the door was knocked in a volume of smoke rushed out, 
blinding the assailants and driving them back. 

Another shout rose from the crowd — this time one of appalled 
amazement ; and the cry ran from lip to lip : 

“He has set the house on Are — he wants to burn himself!” 

“Not he,” gasped Hadden, recovering; “ I know him better; he 
wants to throw us into confusion and so escape. To it again, Speirs, 
and we’ll have him yet !” 

As they made the second attack upon the door they were met 
by the fierce flames which had seized the woodwork surrounding 
it, and the chairs and tables barricading it. The fire, while it 
spared them half their work, also served to keep them at bay. The 
wood was dry and old, and the flame, once seizing it, spread with 
terrible rapidity under the influence of a sharp wind that was blow- 
ing. Half a dozen men ran for the fire-engines, and during their 
absence Hadden and Speirs were obliged to give up the attempt of 
entering the house. Fierce tongues of flame now shot out at the 
windows and the four corners of the building, illuming the excited 
faces of the crowd with a lurid glare, while dense volumes of smoke 
were occasionally swept into their eyes by the wind, driving them 
backward. 

Hadden moved round about the place with nervous agitation, mut- 
tering to himself ; watching every corner, and giving wild commands 
which nobody would obey. 


A HARD KNOT. 


245 


Of a sudden there rose a shout from the back of the house, which 
startled the crowd and caused a sudden rush in the direction indi- 
cated, 

“He’s on the roof!” w\as the cry. All eyes were strained in that 
direction, and as the smoke and flames were occasionally cleared 
away by the gusts of wind, the figure of a man became visible on the 
roof. He seemed about to leap into the midst of the crowd, and 
then, observing that all eyes were turned towards him, he drew 
back. A cloud of smoke rose and enveloped him, hiding him from 
sight. 

Then there was a loud rumbling crash, as the roof of the slim 
building fell in. 

“ He’s killed!” was the exclamation which now swelled up from 
the crowd. 

By this time one of the fire-engines had arrived, and began to 
play on that part of the house where the man was supposed to have 
fallen, which was towards the back. 

“We must have him alive at any cost,” cried Hadden, running 
round to the back. 

When he got into the little yard he saw the men he had placed 
there dragging something away from the burning house. The 
something was Hewitt; his head severely bruised, his clothes torn 
and scorched. In his hand he still clutched the revolver with which 
he had intended to clear his way through the midst of his assailants. 
But he now lay insensible and motionless as death, his visage livid 
and distorted by an expression of demoniac rage and despair. 

The constables explained how it had happened. He had as- 
cended to the roof by means of a small skylight, intending, no 
doubt, to leap down under cover of the smoke, and to make his es- 
cape in the confusion caused by the fire. Observing the men on 
guard at the back, he had rushed towards the front of the building, 
trusting to the height of the excitement there attracting all eyes 
to the door. 

But the watchers behind having raised the shout of alarm, Hew- 
itt became aware that he was seen, and besides, the flames at the 
front helped to drive him back. Thereupon he turned and made 
a spring towards the men in the yard. At that instant the roof 
gave way, breaking the force of his spring, and he fell head fore- 
most at the feet of the men whom he had been about to attack. 

Hadden had him conveyed into a neighboring house, while he 
despatched messengers in search of a doctor, anxious that every, 
thing might be done to restore him sufficiently to obtain from him 
a confession. A medical gentleman arrived, and, after examining 
the wounded man, ordered him to be removed to the infirmary. 

All that night Hewitt lay in a comatose state, breathing slowly 


246 


A HARD KNOT. 


and lieavily. Hadden remained by bis side, steadfastly watching 
for the first signs of returning consciousness. But he neither 
moved nor spoke; his eyelids, partly open, disclosed the orbs 
within, dull, glazed, and bloodshot, ghastly in the traces they bore 
of the passions which had swelled within him at the moment he 
had been stricken down. Towards morning he began to move 
slightly, and to utter low, feeble moans at long intervals. Later 
these symptoms of returning consciousness became more frequent, 
and the eyelids closed, as if the morning light pained his eyes. 

Hadden now sent Speirs, who was in attendance, for Mr. Lyon, 
and resumed his eager watch. About noon Hewitt’s eyes slowly 
opened, wandered round the ward, and rested upon Hadden with 
a strange, inquiring gaze, in which memory seemed to be slowly 
dawning. Then his visage became flushed, and his right hand fee- 
bly searched about as if to clutch something. 

“Curse 5^ou!” he groaned, with helpless rage. “Keep back — it 
is a desperate man 3"ou have to deal with, and I will fight for lib- 
erty to the death!” 

He seemed to have taken up the thread of his life at the point 
where it had been interrupted. For the moment he still imagined 
himself to be on the roof of Jean Gorbal’s burning house, attempt- 
ing to escape his pursuers. His hand had moved in search of the 
revolver, and, not finding it, he made a desperate effort to rise. But 
the mere effort utterly exhausted him, and again he lay motionless, 
groaning. 

In this state he remained for nearly an hour, and by that time 
Mr. Lyon had arrived. An attempt was made to obtain from the 
man, who had now evidently so short a time to live, a confession 
of his crime; but all the efforts of Hadden and Mr. Lyon produced 
no other effect than to cause Hewitt’s eyes to open and to glare 
upon them with a venomous light. 

Every means of persuasion were adopted without effect; he would 
tell them nothing. At length Hadden abruptly begged Lyon to re- 
main there till he returned, and hurried out of the place. 

In half an hour he came back, bringing with him a lady dressed 
in black and closely veiled. 

It was Sarah Burnett. She stood a moment at the foot of the 
patient’s bed, pzing upon him without any outward sign of emo- 
tion. Then with a slow, steady step she advanced to his head, and 
bending over him, touched his hand with her own. Her voice trem- 
bled as she spoke low and pleadingly : 

“ Laurence, look up; it is I who am here.” 

The man opened his eyes as she raised her veil, disclosing her 
face, with its marks of the cruel anguish she had endured and was 
enduring. 


A HARD KNOT. 


247 


“ You, too,” lie gasped feebly, trying to clasp her hand; “ but they 
cannot touch you— they shall not touch you, for you had no hand in it.” 

It was the one gleam of generosity which his callous nature had 
displayed. 

“ Will you tell them all, for my sake?” 

There was a long pause before he made answer. Then — 

“Yes, I will do it for your sake. It is the only kindness I have 
ever done you, and it will be the last.” 

Hadden was prepared with everything necessary for the occasion. 
A table was drawn close to the bed, so that the lowest tones might 
be heard, and writing materials were ready. He instantly seated 
himself and motioned to Mr. Lyon to proceed. 

Partly in answer to the questions of the magistrate, and partly 
following out the train of his own thoughts, Hewitt made his state- 
ment. He spoke slowly and painfully, frequently requiring to pause 
in order to recover strength for utterance, and to collect the threads 
of his weakened memory, recapitulating much with which the reader 
is already acquainted, and which, therefore, we shall not repeat. 

“I found Jean Gorbal greedy and pliable to any extent under the 
promise of money and the influence of drink. She agreed to join 
me in a conspiracy to show that Sarah Burnett was the legitimate 
daughter of Cargill. But, although she was pliant, I did not think 
she could be trusted. She would not part with the letters on any 
consideration. She consented to the conspiracy, however. I brought 
her to my office while Sarah was there, and managed to give her 
conversation a color which caused Sarah to believe that the discov- 
ery she had made was correct in every detail. Having succeeded 
in making her unconsciously my accomplice, I sent her away. I 
would not trust even her with the truth, chiefly because I did not 
think she would consent to my desperate project I visited Jean 
Gorbal several times, endeavoring to persuade her to destroy the 
letters. She still refused, and I saw that the last resource must be 
adopted. I made my arrangements accordingly. On the evening 
I had fixed for the work I went to the theatre with two friends 
named Mackie and Milne. I caused them to drink a good deal, so 
as to confuse their ideas of time and circumstances. During the 
play I slipped away from them and went to Jean Gorbal’s house. 
I was careful to assure myself that my movements were not ob- 
served. I got in by the back-door. She was preparing for bed, and 
was surprised to see me, but she was not at all displeased, for I 
had managed to make her regard me as a jovial companion. She in- 
sisted on preparing supper for me, and while she was doing so I 
again endeavored to persuade her to destroy the letters. She re- 
fused, and, while her back was turned towards me, I struck her 
down with the broken foil. Then I took the light and searched 


248 


A :hard knot. 


for the place where she kept the documents, found them, and 
burned them. I took away some little things in a cloth, in order 
to suggest that the motive of the crime had been robbery. I 
threw the things into the canal, where they were found by the 
police. I had another calculation, which has been verified. In 
the event of the first motive I suggested failing, another motive 
would appear when Sarah Burnett’s claim w^as made known, and 
the guilt would be attributed to Cargill’s instrumentality. With 
that object in view, I caused Sarah to tell her story to Hadden, I 
knowing him to be a detective, and presuming that he and others 
“ would follow the tracks I had laid down for them. When Tav- 
endale was arrested I was sorry for him, and meant to save him 
if it was possible to do so without endangering myself. On that 
account, and in order to place myself in a position to have the 
earliest knowledge of every winding of the evidence, I became his 
agent. Everything went as I had calculated until the day of the 
precognition of witnesses, when Hadden suddenly changed his tac- 
tics and his whole view of the case. Speirs, the inspector, inciden- 
tally made me aware of the change before I left the sheriff’s 
chambers ; and a visit he paid me soon afterwards convinced me 
that he w^as now, by some strange accident, on the right track. I 
watched his every movement, and when he went to Mr. Lyon’s for 
the warrant to arrest me I followed him, was underneath the win- 
dow of the library, and heard enough of wdiat passed to satisfy 
me that my only chance was in flight. The pursuit was hotter 
than I anticipated, but I determined to baffle it. I endeavored to 
lead the officers off the scent by making them believe that I had 
gone to Edinburgh, and until the course w^as clear I decided to 
hide in Jean Gorbal’s house. I believed that even Hadden would 
never suspect me of being there. My trick did not succeed with 
him, and my departure was delayed in consequence of his watch- 
fulness; but I had made up my mind to attempt to get away last 
night, when my retreat was discovered. When I found the house 
surrounded, my last hope was to set it on fire and to escape in 
the excitement or die. I failed in the first object; I have won 
the second.” 

The statement had been carefully written down by Hadden; it 
was now read over to the dying man; he merely acknowledged that 
it was correct, and signed it. As the signatures of the witnesses 
were being appended he made another effort to speak. 

“ Is that enough to satisfy you that she is blameless?” 

“We are satisfied,” said Mr. Lyon, gravely. 

A bitter smile quivered upon Hewitt’s features, and then, his 
strength being utterly exhausted by the strain made upon it, he 
sank back in a state of coma. 


A HARD KNOT. 


249 


Sarab bad remained motionless by bis side while be bad been 
speaking, and now she dropped upon her knees by the bed, hiding 
her face among the clothes. Hadden gently raised her up and led 
her unresistingly from the place. 


CHAPTER XLIX. 

LAST WORDS. 

Two days after making his confession Laurence Hewitt died, and 
there w^as only one person who experienced a degree of regret for 
his wasted life. 

On the same day the- remains of Mrs. Burnett were interred. 
After the funeral Mr. Hadden stood with Sarah in the parlor. She 
had been told of Hewitt’s death, and she' had said nothing. She 
looked now an aged woman, with the pitiably calm expression of 
utter hopelessness on her face. 

“You will forget him,” said Mr. Hadden, tenderly, taking her 
hand. 

’“Yes, when I can forget my own misery,” she answered, dreamil3% 

“But you will forget that too. There is a future for everybody, 
and I say you have done enough to atone for whatever harm you 
were betrayed into perpetrating. You got Hewitt to confess when 
nobody else could ; and you have given Miss Cargill your own state- 
ment of the case, which materially helps the other testimony in prov- 
ing Tavendale to be blameless. At the same time it shows that you, 
my poor lass, have had no real share in the guilt. You have noth- 
ing to reproach yourself with now.” 

“ Does my father think so?” she said bitterly. 

‘ ‘ Mr. Cargill is a stern man, but he acknowledges your innocence 
so far as to make you a handsome allowance, which will enable you 
to live comfortably and happily.” 

And he forbids me to approach him again, or to communicate 
with his daughter?” 

“But you forget she refuses to consent to that. She will not for- 
sake you, and there is somebody else who has been true to you 
through all this.” 

She laid her hand m his. 

“You have been very good to me, Mr. Hadden, and I can never 
repay you.” 

“ Yes, you can, if you will only make yourself happy. Mr. Car- 
gill won’t have you for a daughter; well, who cares? I’ll have you 
for a daughter. Thunder! Sarah, if you’ll agree, I’ll have you for 
a wife!” 

11 =^ 


250 


A HAKD KNOT. 


She was startled by the abrupt proposal. 

“ Mr. Hadden!” she exclaimed, and be interrupted her. 

“There, don’t answer me just now; I’m serious. I have been 
thinking about it for the last two days, and it is the best way I can 
see of making you comfortable. You will change your name; we’ll 
go and live ’somewhere in England, and you will soon forget, as 
other people will forget, the misfortunes w^hich have given me the 
chance of a happiness I would have been afraid to dream about be- 
fore.” 

Mr. Lyou speedily obtained Tavendale’s release, and three weeks 
afterwards a marriage ceremony was performed at Mavisbank House. 
Alexander Tavdndale was the bridegroom and Katherine Cargill the 
bride. There were few guests at the wedding, and those few, if they 
had not known something of the unhappy circumstances that had 
recently occurred, would scarcely have detected any signs of them 
in the glad faces of the millionaire’s daughter and her husband. 

The newly married pair started on a tour for a couple of months, 
and on their return Mr. Tavendale was to take his place as the act- 
ing partner of Messrs. Cargill & Co, 

The change which had been wrought in Mr. Cargill took the form 
of excessive reserve and dislike to society of any kind. He rarely 
quitted the grounds of Mavisbank, and still more rarely ventured 
into the city. Mr. Lyon’s representation of Sarah’s conduct soft- 
ened him towards her, although at first it failed to make him revoke 
his decision not to see her again. 

When Katie told him that Sarah had married Mr. Hadden and 
had removed to England he frowned a little, and then said he was 
glad of it. If he had known the man better his pleasure would 
have been more genuine'. 


THE END. 

% - 


BOOTS AND SADDLES; 

Or, Life in Dakota witli General Custer. By Mrs. Eliz- 
.ABETii B. Custer. With Portrait of General Custer, 
pp. 312. 12mo, Cloth, $1 50. 

A book of adventure is interesting reading, especially when it is all true, 
as is the case with “Boots and Saddles.” * * * She does not obtrude the 
fact that sunshine and solace went with her to tent and fort, but it in- 
heres in her narrative none the less, and as a consequence “ these simple 
annals of our daily life,” as she calls them, are never dull nor uninterest- 
ing, — JSvangelist, N. Y. 

Mrs. Gustei’’s book is in reality a bright and sunny sketch of the life 
of her late husband, who fell at the battle of “ Little Big Horn.” * ^ * 

. After the war, when General Custer was sent to the Indian frontier, his 
wife was of the party, and she is able to give the minute story of her 
husband’s varied career, since she was almost always near the scene of 
his adventures. — Brooklyn Union. 

We have no hesitation in saying that no better or more satisfactory life 
of General Custer could have been Avritten. Indeed, we may as Avell 
speak the thought that is in us, and say plainly that we know of no bio- 
graphical Avork anyAvhere which Ave count better than this. * * * Surely the 
record of such experiences as these Avill be read Avith that keen interest 
Avhich attaches only to strenuous human doings ; as surely Ave are right 
in saying that such a story of truth and heroism as that here told Avill 
take a deeper hold upon the popular mind and heart than any Avork of 
fiction can. For the rest, the narrative is as viA^aclous and as lightly and 
trippingly giv^en as that of any novel. It is enriched in every chapter Avith 
illustrative anecdotes and incidents, and here and there a little life story 
of pathetic interest is told as an episode. — N. Y. Commercial Advertiser. 

It is a plain, straightforward story of the author’s life on the plains of 
Dakota. Every member of a Western garrison Avill Avant to read this 
book ; every person in the East Avho is interested in Western life Avill 
Avant to read it, too; and every girl or boy Avho has a healthy appetite 
for adventure Avill be sure to get it. It is bound to have an army of read- 
ers that feAv authors can expect. — Philadelphia Press. 

These annals of daily life in the army are simple, yet interesting, and 
underneath all is discerned the love of a true Avoman ready for any sacri- 
fice. She touches on themes little canvassed by the civilian, and makes a - 
volume equally redolent of a loving devotion to an honored husband, and 
attractive as a picture of necessary duty by the soldier. — Commonwealth, 
Boston. 


Published by HARPER & BROTHERS, N. Y. 

Hakpke & Beothkes will send the above work by mail, postage prepaid, to any 
part of the United States or Canada, on receipt of the price. 


FLY-EODS AND FFY-TACKLE. 

Suggestions as to their Manufacture and Use. By Henry 
P. Wells. Illustrated, pp. 364. Post 8vo, Illumi- 
nated Cloth, |2 50. 

Mr. Wells has devoted more time and attention to the materials used in 
fly-fishing than any person we know of, and his experience is well set forth 
in this most valuable book. * * * The author is an amateur rod-maker who 
has experimented with every wood known to rod manufacturers, as well as 
with some that are not known to them, and therefore he is an undoubted 
authority on the subject. Tliis chapter and. the one following, which gives 
directions in rod-making, forms the most perfect treatise on rods extant. 
* * * book is one of great value, and will take its place as a standard 
authority on all points of Avhich it treats, and we cannot commend it too 
highly. — Forest and Stream, N. Y. 

Since Izaak Walton lingered over themes piscatorial, we have learned to 
expect, in all essays on the gentle art of angling, a certain daintiness and 
elegance of literary form as well as technical utility. Publisher and author 
have co-operated to meet these traditional requirements in “Ply-Rods and 
Ply-Tackle.” * * * Mr. Wells’s competence to expound the somew'hat in- 
tricate principles and delicate processes of fly-fishing will be plain to any 
reader who himself has some practical acquaintance with the art discussed. 
The value of the author’s instructions and suggestions is signally enhanced 
by their minuteness and lucidity. — N. Y. Sun. 

A complete manual for the ambitious lover of fishing for trout. * * * All 
lovers of fly-fishing should have Mi-. Wells’s book in their outfit for the 
sport that is near at hand. — Philadelphia Bulletin. 

An illustrated volume, elegantly presented, that will make all anglers 
jealous of possession until upon their shelf or centre-table. It is a book 
of suggestion as to the manufacture and use of all kinds of fishing-appa- 
ratus. — Boston Commomvealth. 

Mr. Wells reveals to us the mysteries of lines, leaders, and reels, rods, 
rod material, and rod-making. He lets us into the secret of making re- 
pairs, and gives all due directions for casting the fly. * * * Moreover, Mr. 
Wells writes in an attraetive style. There is a certain charm in the heart- 
iness and grace wherewith he expresses his appreciation of those beauties 
of nature which the angler has so unlimited an opportunity of enjoying. 
Tims what may be called not only a technical, but also a scientific, knowl- 
edge of his subject is combined with a keen delight in hill, stream, and for- 
est for the sake of the varied loveliness they display. — N. Y. Telegram. 

A book of practical hints about the manufacture and use of anglers’ 
gear. Pish-hooks, lines, leaders, rods and rod-making, repairs, flies and 
fly-fishing, are among the important subjects discussed with great fulness. 
The essay on “Casting the Ply” and “Miscellaneous Suggestions” are 
rich in points for beginners. It is to the latter, and not to the experts, 
that Mr. Wells modestly dedicates his work. His object is to supply pre- 
cisely the kind of information of which he stood so much in need during 
his own novitiate. — N. Y. Journal of Commerce. 


Published by HARPER & BROTHERS, New Y"ork. 

jgsr The above work sent by mail, postage prepaid, to any part of the United States 
or Canada, on receipt of the price. 


SOME POPULAR NOVELS 

PubUsted by HAEPEE & BEOTHEES New York. 


The Octavo Paper Novels in this list may be obtained in half-binding [leather backs 
and pasteboard sides], suitable for Public and Circulating Libraries, at 25 cents 
per volume, in addition to the prices named below. The d2mo Paper Novels may be 
obtained in Cloth, at 15 cents per volume in addition to the prices named below. 

For a Full List of Novels published by Harper & Brothers, see Harper’s New 
ANi> Rkvisku Catalogue, which will be sent by mail, postage prepaid, to any ad- 
dress in the United States, on receipt of Ten cents. 


BAKER’S (Rev. "VV. M.) Carter Quarterman. Illustrated 8vo, Paper $ 

Inside: a Chronicle of Secession. Illustrated 8vo, Paper 

The New Timothy 12mo, Cloth, $1 50 ; 4to, Paper 

The Virginians in Texas 8vo, Paper 

BENEDICT’S (F. L.) John Worthington’s Name 8vo, Paper 

Miss Dorothy’s Charge 8vo, Paper 

Miss Van Kortland 8vo, Paper 

My Daughter Elinor 8vo, Paper 

St. Simon’s Niece 8vo, Paper 

BESANT’S (W.) All in a Garden Fair 4to, Paper 

BESANT & RICE’S All Sorts and Conditions of Men 4to, Paper 

By Celia’s Arbor. Illustrated 8vo, Paper 

Shepherds All and Maidens Fair 32mo, Paper 

“ So they were Married !” Illustrated 4to, Paper 

Sweet Nelly, My Heart’s Delight 4to, Paper 

The Captains’ Room 4to, Paper 

The Chaplain of the Fleet 4to, Paper 

The Golden Butterfly 8vo, Paper 

’Twas in Trafalgar’s Bay 32mo, Paper 

When the Ship Comes Home 32mo, Paper 


BLACK’S (W.) A Daughter of Ileth. 12mo, Cloth, $l 25 ; 

A Princess of Thule 12mo, Cloth, 1 25; 

Green Pastures and Piccadilly. . 12mo, Cloth, 1 25; 

In Silk Attire 12mo, Cloth, 1 25 ; 

Judith Shakespeare. Ill’d 12mo, Cloth, 125; 

Kihneny 12mo, Cloth, 1 25; 

Macleod of Dare. Illustrated. 12mo, Cloth, 1 25 ; 


8vo, Paper 
8vo, Paper 
8 VO, Paper 
8 VO, Paper 
4 to. Paper 
8 VO, Paper 
8vo, Paper 
4to, Paper 
8 VO, Paper 
4to, Paper 
4 to. Paper 
4to, Paper 


Madcap Violet 12mo, Cloth, 125; 

Shandon Bells. Illustrated 12mo, Cloth, 125; 

Sunrise 12mo, Cloth, 1 25; 

That Beautiful Wretch. Iird...l2mo, Cloth, 125; 

The Maid of Killeena, and Other Stories 8vo, Paper 

The Monarch of Mincing-Lane. Illustrated 8vo, Paper 

TheStrange Adventures of a Phaeton. 12mo, Cloth, $1 25; 8vo, Pa. 

Three Fetrthers. Illustrated 12mo, Cloth, $1 25; 8vo, Paper 

White Wings. Illustrated 12mo, Cloth, 125; 4 to. Paper 

Yolande. Illustrated 12iuo, Cloth, $1 25 ; 4to, Paper 


60 

75 

25 

75 

75 

75 

60 

80 

60 

20 

20 

60 

25 

20 

10 

10 

20 

40 

20 

25 

35 

60 

60 

35 
20 

36 
60 
16 
60 
20 
15 
20 
40 
60 
60 
60 
20 
20 


2 


Harper <& Brothers' Popular Novels. 


PRIOK 

BLACKMORE’S (R. D.) Alice Lorraine 8vo, Paper $ 50 

Christowell 4to, Paper 20 

Clara Vaughan 4to, Paper 15 

Cradock Nowell 8vo, Paper 60 

Cripps, the Carrier. Illustrated 8vo, Paper 50 

Erema 8 vo, Paper 50 

Lorna Doone 12ino, Cloth, $1 00 ; 8vo, Paper 25' 

Mary Anerley 16ino, Cloth, 100; 4to, Paper 15 

The^Maid of Sker 8vo, Paper 60 

Tommy Uprnore 16mo, Cloth, 50 cents ; 16mo, Paper 36 

4to, Paper 20 

BRADDON’S (Miss) An Open Verdict 8vo, Paper 85 

A Strange World 8vo, Paper 40 

Asphodel..-. 4to, Paper 15 

Aurora Floyd 8vo, Paper 40 

Barbara; or. Splendid Misery 4to, Paper • 15 

Birds of Prey. Illustrated 8vo, Paper 60 

Bound to John Company. Illustrated 8vo, Paper 50 

Charlotte’s Inheritance 8vo, Paper 36 

Dead Men’s Shoes 8vo, Paper 40 

Dead Sea Fruit. Illustrated 8vo, Paper 60 

Eleanor’s Victory 8vo, Paper 60 

Fenton’s Quest. Illustrated 8vo, Paper 60 

Flower and Weed 4to, Paper 10 

Hostages to Fortune. Illustrated 8vo, Paper 60 

John Marchmont’s Legacy 8v'o, Paper 60 

Joshua Haggard’s Daughter. Illustrated 8vo, Paper 60 

Just as I Am j 4to, Paper 15 

Lost for Love. Illustrated... 8vo, Paper 60 

Mistletoe Bough, 1878. Edited by M. E. Braddon 4to, Paper 15 

Mistletoe Bough, 1879. Edited by M.E. Braddon 4to, Paper 10 

Mistletoe Bough, 1884. Edited by M. E. Braddon 4to, Paper 20 

Mount Royal : 4 to. Paper 15 

Phantom Fortune 4to, Paper 20 

Publicans and Sinners 8vo, Paper 60 

Strangers and Pilgrims. Illustrated 8vo, Paper 60 

Taken at the Flood 8vo, Paper 60 

The Cloven Foot 4to, Paper 15 

The Levels of Arden. Illustrated 8vo, Paper 60 

To the Bitter End. Illustrated 8vo, Paper 50 

Under the Red Flag 4to, Paper 10 

Vixen 4to, Paper 15 

Weavers and Weft 8vo, Paper 25 

Wyllard’s Weird 4to, Paper 20 

BREAD-WINNERS, THE 16mo, Cloth 1 00 

BRONTE’S (Charlotte) Jane Eyre. Illustrated 12mo, Cloth 1 00 

4to, Paper, 15 cents; 8vo, Paper 40 


The Professor. Illustrated .12mo, Cloth 1 00 


Harper Brothers* Popular Novels. 


3 


BRONTE’S (Charlotte) Villette. Ill’d. 12mo, Cloth, $1 00; 8vo, Paper $ 50 
BRONTE’S (Anna) The Tenant of Wildfell Hall. Ill’d... . 1 2mo, Cloth 1 00 

BRONTE’S (Emily) Wuthering Heights. Illustrated 12rao, Cloth 1 00 

BULWER’S (Lvtton) Alice 8 vo, Paper 35 

A Strange Story. Illustrated. ...12mo, Cloth, $1 25 ; 8vo, Paper 50 

Devereux 8vo, Paper 40 

Ernest Maltravers 8vo, Paper 35 

Godolphin 8 vo. Paper 35 

Kenelni Chillingly 12mo, Cloth, $1 25 ; 8vo, Paper 60 

Leila 12mo, Cloth, $1 00 ; 8vo, Paper 25 

My Novel 2 vols. 12 mo. Cloth, 2 50; 8 vo. Paper 75 

Night and Morning 8 vo. Paper 50 

Paul Clifford .'8vo, Paper 40 

Pausanias the Spartan 12mo, Cloth, 75 cents ; 8vo, Paper 25 

Pelham 8 vo. Paper 40 

Rienzi ....8vo, Paper 40 

The Caxtons 12mo, Cloth, $1 25 ; 8 vo. Paper 50 

The Coming Race 12mo, Cloth,' 100; 12mo, Paper 50 

1’he Last Days of Pompeii 8vo, Paper, 25 cents ; 4to, Paper 15 

The Last of the Barons 8vo, Paper 50 

The Parisians. Illustrated 12mo, Cloth, $1 60; 8 vo. Paper 60 

The Pilgrims of the Rhine 8vo, Paper 20 

What will He do with it? 8vo, Paper 75 

Zanoni 8vo, Paper 35 

COLLINS’S (Wilkie) Novels. Ill’d Library Edition. 12mo, Cloth, per vol. 1 25 
After Dark, and Other Stores. — Antonina. — Armadale. — Basil. — 
Hide-and-Seek. — Man and Wife. — My Miscellanies. — No Name. 

— Poor Miss Pinch. — The Dead Secret. — The Law and the Lady. 

— The Moonstone. — The New Magdalen. — The Queen of Hearts. 

— The Two Destinies. — The Woman in White. 

Antonina ^ 8vo, Paper 40 

Armadale. Illustrated 8vo, Paper 60 

“ I Say No ”.16mo. Cloth, 60 cts. ; 16mo, Paper, 35 cts. ; 4 to, Paper 20 

Man and Wife 4to, Paper 20 

My Lady’s Money 32mo, Paper 25 

No Name. Illustrated 8vo, Paper 60 

Percy and the Prophet 32mo, Paper 20 

Poor Miss Finch. Illustrated 8vo, Cloth, $1 10 ; 8 vo, Paper 60 

The Law and the Lady. Illustrated 8vo, Paper 50 

The Moonstone. Illustrated 8 vo. Paper 60 

The New Magdalen 8vo, Paper 30 

The Two Destinies. Illustrated «..8vo. Paper 35 

The Woman in White. Illustrated 8vo, Paper 60 

CRAIK’S (Miss G. M.) Anne Warwick 8vo, Paper 25 

Dorcas 4to, Paper 15 

Fortune’s Marriage 4to, Paper 20 

Godfrey Helstone 4to, Paper 20 

Hard to Bear 8vo, Paper 30 

Mildred 8vo, Paper 30 


4 


Harper d' Brothers' Popular Novels. 


CRAIK’S (Miss G. M.) Sydney 4to, Paper $ 15 

Sylvia’s Choice 8vo, Paper 30 

Two Women 4to, Paper 15 

DICKENS’S (Charles) Works. Household Edition. Illustrated. 8vo. 

Set of 16 vols., Cloth, in box 22 00 


A Tale of Two Cities.Paper $ 50 
Cloth 1 00 

Barnaby Rudire Paper 1 00 

Cloth 1 50 

Bleak House Paper 1 00 

Cloth 1 50 
Christmas Stories. ...Paper 1 00 
Cloth 1 60 
David Copperfield. . .Paper 1 00 
Cloth 1 60 

DombeyandSon Paper 1 00 

Cloth 1 60 
Great Expectations.. .Paper 1 00 
Cloth 1 60 

Little Dorrit Paper 1 00 

Cloth 1 50 
Martin Chuzzlewit.... Paper 1 00 


Martin Chuzzlewit Cloth 1 

Nicholas Nickleby Paper 1 

Cloth 1 

Oliver Twist Paper 

Cloth 1 

Our Mutual Friend Paper 1 

Cloth 1 

Pickwick Papers Paper 1 

Cloth 1 

Pictures from Italy, Sketches by 
Boz, American Notes ...Paper 1 
Cloth 1 

The Old Curiosity Shop. ..Paper, 
Cloth 1 

Uncommercial Traveller, Hard 
Times, Edwin Drood... Paper 1 
Cloth 1 


Pickwick Papers 4to, Paper 

The Mudfog Papers, &c 4to, Paper 

Mystery of Edwin Drood. Illustrated 8vo, Paper 

Hard times 8vo, Paper 

Mrs. Lirriper’s Legacy 8vo, Paper 

DE MILLE’S A Castle in Spain. Ill’d. 8vo, Cloth, $1 00 ; 8vo, Paper 

Cord and Creese. Illustrated 8vo, Paper 

The American Baron. Illustrated 8vo, Paper 

The Cryptogram. Illustrated ! 8vo, Paper 

The Dodge Club. Illustrated... .8 vo. Paper, 60 cents ; 8vo, Cloth 
The Living Link. Illustrated — 8vo, Paper, 60 cents ; 8vo, Cloth 

DISRAELI’S (Earl of Beaconsfield) Endymion 4to, Paper 

The Young Duke 12mo, Cloth, $1 50; 4to, Paper 

EDWARDS’S (A. B.) Barbara’s History 8vo, Paper 

Debenham’s Vow. Illustrated 8vo, Paper 

Half a Million of Money 8vo, Paper 

Lord Brackenbury 4 to, Paper 

Miss Carew 8vo, Paper 

My Brother’s Wife 8vo, Paper 

EDWARDS’S-(M.*B.) Disarmed 4to, Paper 

Exchange No Robbery 4to, Paper 

Kitty 8 VO, Paper 

Pearla 4to, Paper 

ELIOT’S (George) Novels. Library Edition. Iird.l2mo, Cloth, per vol. 

Popular Edition. Illustrated 12mo, Clotli, per vol. 

Adam Bede. — Daniel Deronda, 2 vols. — Felix Holt, the Radical. — 
Middlemarch, 2 vols. — Romola. — Scenes of Clerical Life, and 
Silas Marner. — The Mill on the Floss. 


60 

00 

60 

60 

00 

00 

60 

00 

60 

00 

60 

76 

25 

00 

60 

20 

10 

25 

25 

10 

60 

60 

50 

75 

10 

10 

16 

16 

60 

60 

60 

16 

35 

25 

16 

16 

35 

20 

25 

75 


Harper <£• Brothers' Popular Novels. 


5 


ELIOT’S (George) Amos Barton 32mo, Paper $ 

Brother Jacob, — The Lifted V^eil 32mo, Paper 

Daniel Deronda 8vo, Paper 

Felix Holt, the Radical 8vo, Paper 

Janet’s Repentance 32mo, Paper 

Middlemarch 8vo, Paper 

Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 32mo, Paper 

Romola. Illustrated 8 vo, Paper 

Silas Marner •. 12mo, Paper 

Scenes of Clerical Life 8vo, Paper 

The Mill on the Floss 8vo, Paper 

FARJEON’S An Island Pearl. Illustrated 8vo, Paper 

At the Sign of the Silver Flagon 8vo, Paper 

Blade-o’-Grass. Illustrated ’. 8vo, Paper 

Bread-and-Cheese and Kisses. Illustrated 8vo, Paper 

Golden Grain. Illustrated .....8vo, Paper 

Grif 8vo, Cloth 

Great Porter Square 4 to, Paper 

Jessie Trim 8vo, Paper 

Joshua Marvel 8vo, Paper 

Love’s Victory 8vo, Paper 

Shadows on the Snow. Illustrated 8vo, Paper 

The Bells of Penraven 4to, Paper 

The Duchess of Rosemary Lane 8vo, Paper 

The King of Ko-Land. Illustrated 8vo, -Paper 

GASKELL’S (Mrs.) Cousin Phillis 8vo, Paper 

Cranford 16mo, Cloth 

Mary Barton 8vo, Paper, 40 cents ; 4to, Paper 

Moorland Cottage 18mo, Cloth 

My Lady Ludlow 8vo, Paper 

Right at Last, &c 12mo, Cloth 

Sylvia’s Lovers 8vo, Paper 

Wives and Daughters. Illustrated 8vo, Paper 

GIBBON’S (C.) A Hard Knot 

A Heart’s Problem 4to, Paper 

By Mead and Stream 4to, Paper 

For Lack of Gold 8vo, Paper 

For the King 8vo, Paper 

Heart’s Delight 4to, Paper 

In Honor Bound 8vo, Paper 

Of High Degree 4to, Paper 

Robin Gray 8vo, Paper 

Queen of the Meadow 4to, Paper 

The Braes of Yarrow 4to, Paper 

The Golden Shaft 4to, Paper 

HARDY’S (Lady) Daisy Nichol 8vo, Paper 

(Miss) Friend and Lover 4to, Paper 

(Thos.) Fellow-Townsmen 32mo, Paper 

A Laodicean. Illustrated 4to, Paper 


PEICE 

20 

20 

50 

50 

20 

75 

20 

50 

20 

50 

50 

30 

25 

30 

35 

35 

85 

20 

35 

40 

20 

30 

10 

35 

25 

20 

25 

20 

75 

20 

60 

40 

60 


10 

20 

35 

30 

35 

20 

35 

15 

20 

20 

85 

15 

20 

20 


6 


Haiyer d' Brothers' Popular Novels. 


TKICB 

HARDY’S (Thos.) Romantic Adventures of a Milkmaid 4to, Paper $ 10 

HARRISON’S (Mrs.) Helen Troy 16 mo, Cloth 1 00 

Golden Rod 32mo, Paper 25 

HAY’S (M. C.) A Dark Inheritance 32mo, Paper 15 

A Shadow on the Threshold 32mo, Paper 20 

Among the Ruins, and Other Stories 4to, Paper 15 

At the Seaside, and Other Stories 4to, Paper 15 

Back to the Old Home 32mo, Paper 20 

Bid Me Discourse 4to, Paper 10 

Dorothy’s Venture 4to, Paper 15 

For Her Dear Sake 4to, Paper 15 

Hidden Perils 8vo, Paper 25 

Into the Shade, and Other Stories 4to, Paper 15 

Lady Carmichael’s Will 32mo, Paper 15 

Lester’s Secret 4to, Paper 20 

Missing 32mo, Paper 20 

My First Offer, and Other Stories 4to, Paper 15 

Nora’s Love Test 8vo, Paper 25 

Old Myddelton’s Money 8vo, Paper 25 

Reaping the Whirlwind 32mo, Paper 20 

The Arundel Motto 8vo, Paper 25 

The Sorrow of a Secret 32mo, Paper 15 

The Squire’s Legacy 8vo, Paper 25 

Under Life’s Key, and Other Stories 4to, Paper 15 

Victor and Vanquished 8vo, Paper 25 

HOEY’S (Mrs. C.) A Golden Sorrow 8vo, Paper 40 

All or Nothing 4 to. Paper 15 

Kate Cronin’s Dowry 32mo, Paper 15 

The Blossoming of an Aloe 8vo, Paper 30 

The Lover’s Creed 4to, Paper 20 

The .Question of Cain 4to, Paper 20 

HUGO’S (Victor) Ninety-Three. Ill’d. 12mo, Cloth, $1 75 ; 8vo, Paper 25 

The Toilers of the Sea. Ill’d 8vo, Cloth, 150; 8vo, Paper 50 

JAMES’S (Henry, Jun.) Daisy Miller 32mo, Paper 20 

An International Episode 32mo, Paper 20 

Diary of a Man of Fifty, and A Bundle of Letters 32mo, Paper 25 

The four above-mentioned works in one volume 4to, Paper 25 

Washington Square. Illustrated 16mo, Cloth 1 25 

JOHNSTON’S (R. M.) Dukesborough Tales. Illustrated 4to, Paper 25 

Old Mark Langston 16 mo, Cloth 1 00 

LANG’S (Mrs.) Dissolving Views... 16mo, Cloth, 50 cents ; 16nio, Paper 35 

LAWRENCE’S (G. A.) Anteros 8vo, Paper 40 

Brakespeare 8vo, Paper 40 

Breaking a Butterfly 8vo, Paper 35 

Guy Livingstone 12mo, Cloth, $1 50 ; 4to, Paper 10 

Hagarcne 8vo, Paper 35 

Maurice Dering 8vo, Paper 25 

Sans Merci 8 vo. Paper 35 

Sword and Gown 8vo, Paper 20 


Harper c£r Brothers' Popular Novels. 


7 


LEVER’S (Charles) A Day’s Ride 

Barrington 

Gerald Fitzgerald 

, Lord Kilgobbin. Illustrated 8vo, Cloth, $1 00; 

One of Them 

Roland Cashel. Illustrated 

Sir Brook Fosbrooke 

Sir Jasper Carew 

‘ That Boy of Norcott’s. Illustrated 

The Bramleighs of Bishop’s Folly 

The Daltons 

The Fortunes of Glehcore... 

The Martins of Cro’ Martin 

Tony Butler 

.LILLIE’S (Mrs. L.C.) Prudence. IH’d. 16mo, Cloth, 90 cts 

MCCARTHY’S (Justin) Comet of a Season 

Donna Quixote 

Maid of Athens 

My Enemy’s Daughter. Illustrated 

The Commander’s Statue 

The Waterdale Neighbors 

MACDONALD’S (George) Alec Forbes 

Annals of a Quiet Neighborhood 

Donal Grant 

Guild Court.. 

Warlock o’ Glen warlock 

Weighed and Wanting 

MULOCK’S (Miss) A Brave Lady. Ill’d. 12mo, Cl., 90 cents. 

Agatha’s Husband. Ill’d 12mo, Cloth, 90 cents ; 

A Legacy 

A Life for a Life 12mo, Cloth, 90 cents; 

A Noble Life 

Avillion, and Other Tales 

Christian’s Mistake 

Hannah. Illustrated 12mo, Cloth, 90 cents ; 

H^ad of the Family, lll’d 12mo, Cloth, 90 cents ; 

His Little Mother 12mo, Cloth, 90 cents; 

John Halifax, Gentleman. Illustrated 

12mo, Cloth, 90 cents ; 

Miss Tommy 12mo, Cloth, 90 cents; 

Mistress and Maid 12mo, Cloth, 90 cents ; 

My Mother and I. Illustrated.. 12mo, Cloth, 90 cents ; 

Nothing New 

Ogilvies. Illustrated 12mo, Cloth, 90 cents; 

Olive. Illustrated 12mo, Cloth, 90 cents ; 

The Laurel Bush. Ill’d 1 2mo, Cloth, 90 cents ; 

The Woman’s Kingdom. Ill’d. . . 12rao, Cloth, 90 cts. ; 
Two Marriages 


PRIOB 


40 


40 

8 VO, Paper 

f)0 


60 


15 


60 


60 


25 


60 


15 


60 


60 


60 

. ; Paper 

50 


20 


15 


20 


60 

3 2 mo. Paper 

15 


35 


60 

.12mo, Cloth 1 

25 


20 


40 


20 


20 

; 8 VO, Paper 

60 

8 VO, Paper 

35 

. 12mo, Cloth 

90 

8vo, Paper 

40 

,.12mo. Cloth 

90 


60 

.12mo'^ Cloth 

90 

8vo, Paper 

35 

8 VO, Paper 

60 

4to, Paper 

10 


60 

4 to. Paper 

15 

Paper 

60 

8vo, Paper 

30 

8 VO, Paper 

40 


30 

8vo, Paper 

35 

8vo, Paper 

35 

8vo, Paper 

25 

8 VO, Paper 

60 

.12mo, Cloth 

90 


8 Harper & Brothers' Popular Novels. 


TRIOE 

M CLOCK’S (Miss) Unkind Word, and Other Stories 12mo, Cloth $ 90 

Young Mrs. Jardine 12mo, Cloth, $1 25 ; 4to, Paper 10 

MURRAY’S (D. C.) A Life’s Atonement 4to, Paper 2a 

A Model Father 4to, Paper 10, 

By the Gate of the Sea 4to, Paper, 16 cents ; 12mo, Paper 15 

Hearts 4to, Paper 20 

The Way of the World 4to, Paper 20 

Val Strange 4to, Paper 20 

NORRIS’S (W. E.) A Man of His Word, &c 4to, Paper '20 

Heaps of Money 8vo, Paper 16 

Mademoiselle de Mersac .....4to, Paper 20 

Matrimony 4to, Paper 20 

No New Thing 4to, Paper 25 

That Terrible Man 

Thirlby Hall. Illustrated 4to, Paper 25^ 

OLIPH ANT’S (Laurence) Altiora Peto.4to, Paper, 20 cts. ; 16mo, Paper 20^ 

Piccadilly 16mo, Paper 25 

OLIPHANT’S (Mrs.) Agnes 8vo, Paper 60 

^ A Son of the Soil 8vo, Paper 60 

Athelings 8vo, Paper 60 

Brownlows 8vo, Paper 60 

Carit^. Illustrated 8vo, Paper 60 

Chronicles of Carlingford 8vo, Paper 60 

Days of My Life 12mo, Cloth 1 60 

For Love and Life 8vo, Paper 60 

Harry Joscelyn 4to, Paper 20 

He That Will Not when He May 4to, Paper 20 

Hester 4to, Paper 20 

Innocent. Illustrated 8vo, Paper 60 

It was a Lover and His Lass 4to, Paper 20 

Lady Jane 4to, Paper 10 

Lucy Crofton 12mo, Cloth 1 50 

Madam 16mo, Cloth, 75 cents; 4to, Paper 25 

Madonna Mary 8vo, Paper 60 

Miss Marjoribanks 8vo, Paper 60 

Mrs. Arthur 8vo, Paper 40 

Ombra 8vo, Paper 60 

Phoebe, Junior .•.8vo, Paper 35 

Sir Tom 4to, Paper 20 

Squire Arden 8vo, Paper 60 

The Curate in Charge 8vo, Paper 20 

The Fugitives 4 to. Paper 10 

The Greatest Heiress in England 4to, Paper 10 

The Ladies Lindores 16mo, Cloth, $1 00; 4to, Paper 20 

The Laird of Norlaw 12mo, Cloth 1 60 

The Last of the Mortimers 12mo, Cloth 1 60 

The Perpetual Curate 8vo, Paper 60 

The Primrose Path 8vo, Paper 50 

The Story of Valentine and his Brother 8vo, Paper 50 


Harper (k Brothers' Popular Novels. 


9 


OLIPHANT’S (Mrs.) The Wizard’s Son 4to, Paper $ 25 

Within the Precincts 4to, Paper 15 

• Young Musgrave 8vo, Paper 40 

PAYN’S (James) A Beggar on Horseback 8vo, Paper 35 

A Confidential Agent 4to, Paper 15 

A Grape from a Thorn 4to, Paper 20 

A Woman’s Vengeance 8vo, Paper 35 

At Her Mercy 8vo, Paper 30 

Bred in the Bone 8vo, Paper 40 

. By Proxy 8vo, Paper 35 

Carlyon’s Year 8vo, Paper 25 

For Cash Only 4to, Paper 20 

Found Dead 8vo, Paper 25 

From Exile 4to, Paper 15 

Gwendoline’s Harvest 8vo, Paper 25 

Halves 8 vo, Paper 30 

High Spirits 4to, Paper 15 

Kit. Illustrated 4to, Paper* 20 

Less Black than We’re Painted 8vo, Paper 35 

Murphy’s Master 8vo, Paper 20 

One of the Family 8vo, Paper 25 

The Best of Husbands 8vo, Paper 25 

The Canon’s Ward. Illustrated 4to, Paper 25 

The Talk of the Town 4to, Paper 20 

Thicker than Water 16mo, Cloth, $1 00; 4to, Paper 20 

Under One Roof 4to, Paper 15 

Walter’s Word 8vo, Paper 60 

What He Cost Her 8vo, Paper 40 

Won — Not Wooed 8vo, Paper 30 

READE’S Novels : Household Edition. Ill’d 12mo, Cloth, per vol. 1 00 


A Simpleton awe? Wandering Heir. 

It is Never Too Late to Mend. 


A Terrible Temptation. 


Love me Little, Love me Long. 


A Woman-Hater. 


Peg Woffington, Christie John- 


Foul Play. 


stone, &c. 


Good Stories. 


Put Yourself in His Place. 


Griffith Gaunt. 


The Cloister and the Hearth. 


Hard Cash, 


White Lies. 


A Perilous Secret 

,..12mo, Cloth, 75 cents ; 4to, Paper 

20 



16 mo. Paper 

40 

A Hero and a Martyr 



15 

A Simpleton 



30 

A Terrible Temptation. Illustrated 8vo, Paper 

25 

A Woman-Hater. Ill’d 

8vo, Paper, 30 cents; 12mo, Paper 

20 

Foul Play 



30 

Good Stories of Man and Other Animals. Illustrated...4to, Paper 

20 

Griffith Gaunt. Illustrated... 



30 

Hard Cash. Illustrated 



35 

It is Never Too Late to Mend, 



35 

Jack of all Trades 



15 


10 


Harper & Brothers’ Popular Kovels. 


READE’S (Charles) Love Me Little, Love Me Long 8vo, Paper $ 30 

Multum ill Parvo. Illustrated 4to, Paper 16 

Peg Woffington, &c 8vo, Paper 35 

Put Yourself in His Place. Illustrated 8vo, Paper 35 

The Cloister and the Hearth 8vo, Paper 35 

The Coming Man 32mo, Paper 20 

The Jilt 32mo, Paper 20 

The Picture 16mo, Paper 15 

The Wandering Heir. Illustrated 8vo, Paper 20 

White Lies 8vo, Paper 30 

ROBINSON’S (F. W.) A Bridge of Glass 8vo, Paper 30 

A Fair Maid 4to, Paper 20 

A Girl’s Romance, and Other Stories 8vo, Paper 80 

As Long as She Lived 8vo, Paper 60 

Carry’s Confession 8vo, Paper 50 

Christie’s Faith 12mo, Cloth 1 76 

Coward Conscience 4to, Paper 15 

For Her Sake. Illustrated 8vo, Paper 60 

Her Face was Her Fortune 8vo, Paper 40 

Lazarus in London 

Little Kate Kirby. Illustrated 8vo, Paper 60 

Mattie: a Stray 8 vo, Paper 40 

No Man’s Friend 8vo, Paper 50 

Othello the Second 32mo, Paper 20. 

Poor Humanity 8vo, Paper 60 

PoorZeph! 32mo, Paper 20 

Romance on Four Wheels 8vo, Paper 15 

Second-Cousin Sarah. Illustrated 8vo, Paper 60 

Stern Necessity 8vo, Paper 40 

The Barmaid at Battleton 32mo, Paper 15 

The Black Speck ' 4to, Paper 10 

The Hands of Justice 4to, Paper 20 

The Man She Cared For 4to, Paper 20 

The Romance of a Back Street 32mo, Paper 16 

True to Herself 8vo, Paper 50 

ROE’S (E. P.) Nature’s Serial Story. Illustrated Square 8vo, Cloth 5 00 

Gilt Edges 5 25 

RUSSELL’S (W. Clark) Auld Lang Syne 4to, Paper 10 

A Sailor’s Sweetheart 4to, Paper 15 

A Sea Queen 16mo, Cloth, $1 00; 4to, Paper 20 

An Ocean Free Lance 4to, Paper 20 

Jack’s Courtship 16mo, Cloth, 1 00; 4to, Paper 25 

John Holdsworth, Chief Mate 4to, Paper 20 

Little Loo 4to, Paper 20 

My Watch Below 4to, Paper 20 

On the Fo’k’sle Head 

Round the Galley Fire 4to, Paper 15 

The “ Lady Maud Schooner Yacht. Illustrated 4to, Paper 20 

Wreck of the “Grosvenor” 8vo, Paper, 30 cents ; 4 to, Paper 15 


Harper c6 Brother Popular Novels. 


11 


PEICB 

SCOTT’S Novels. See Waverley Novels. 

SHERWOOD’S (Mrs. John) A Transplanted Rose 12mo, Cloth$l 00 

TABOR’S (Eliza) Eglantine 8vo, Paper 40 

Hope Meredith 8vo, Paper 35 

Jennie’s Quiet Life 8vo, Paper 30 

Little Miss Primrose 4to, Paper 15 

Meta’s Faith 8vo, Paper 35 

The Blue Ribbon 8vo, Paper 40 

The Last-of Her Line 4to, Paper 15 

. The Senior Songman 4to, Paper 20 

THACKERAY’S (Miss) Bluebeard’s Keys 8vo, Paper 35 

Da Capo 3 2 mo, Paper 20 

Miscellaneous Works 8vo, Paper 90 

Miss Williamson’s Divagations 4to, Paper 15 

Old Kensington. Illustrated 8vo, Paper 60 

THACKERAY’S (W. M.) Denis Duval. Illustrated ...8vo, Paper 25 

Henry Esmond, and Lovel the Widower. 12 Ill’s -. 8vo, Paper 60 

Henry Esmond 8vo, Pa., 50 cents ; 4to, Paper 15 

Lovel the Widower 8vo, Paper 20 

Pendennis. I'i’O Illustrations 8vo, Paper 75 

The Adventures of Philip. 64 Illustrations 8vo, Paper 60 

The Great Hoggarty Diamond 8vo, Paper 20 

The Newcomes. 162 Illustrations 8vo, Paper 90 

The Virginians. 150 Illustrations 8vo, Paper 90 

Vanity Fair. 32 Illustrations 8vo, Paper 80 

THACKERAY’S Works. Illustrated., 12mo, Cloth, per vol. 1 25 


Novels: Vanity Fair. — Pendennis.— The Newcomes.— The Virgin- 
ians. — Philip. — Esmond, and Lovel the Widower. 6 vols. Mis- 
cellancom: Barry Lyndon, Hoggarty Diamond, &c. — Paris and 
Irish Sketch-Books, &c. — Book of Snobs, Sketches, &c. — Four 
Georges, English Humorists, Roundabout Papers, &c. — Catharine, 


&c. 5 vols. 

TOWNSEND’S (G. A.) The Entailed Hat 16mo, Cloth 1 50 

TROLLOPE’S (Anthony) An Eye for an Eye 4to, Paper 10 

An Old Man’s Love 4to, Paper 15 

Ayala’s Angel 4to, Paper 20 

Cousin Henry 4t6, Paper 10 

Doctor Thorne 12mo, Cloth 1 60 

Doctor Wortle’s School 4to, Paper 15 

Framley Parsonage :..4to. Paper 15 

Harry Heathcote of Gangoil. Illustrated 8vo, Paper 20 

He Knew He was Right. Illustrated 8vo, Paper 80 

Is He Popenjov? 4to, Paper 20 

John Caldigate 4to, Paper 15 

Kept in the Dark 4to, Paper 15 

Lady Anna 8vo, Paper 30 

Marion Fa V. Illustrated 4to, Paper 20 

Mr. Scarborough’s Family 4to, Paper 20 

Phineas Redux. Illustrated 8vo, Paper 76 


12 


Harper & Brothers' Popular Novels. 


TROLLOPE’S (Anthony) Rachel Ray 8vo, Paper $ 35 

Ralph the Heir. Illustrated ..8vo, Paper 75 

Sir Harry Hotspur of Humblethwaitc. Illustrated 8vo, Paper 35 

The American Senator 8vo, Paper 60 

The Belton Estate 8vo, Paper 35 

The Bertrams 4to, Paper 15 

The Duke’s Children 4to, Paper 20 

The Eustace Diamonds. Illustrated 8vo, Paper 80 

The Fixed Period dto; Paper 15 

The Golden Lion of Granpere. Illustrated 8 vo, Paper 40 

The Lady of Launay 32mo, Paper 20 

The Last Chronicle of Barset. Illustrated 8vo, Paper 90 

The Prime Minister 8vo, Paper 60 

The Small House at Allington. Illustrated 8vo, Paper 76 

The Vicar of Bullhampton. Illustrated 8vo, Paper 80 

The Warden, and Barchester Towers 8vo, Paper 60 

The Way We Live Now. Illustrated 8vo, Paper 90 

Thompson Hall.. Illustrated 32mo, Paper 20 

Why Frau Frohman Raised her Prices, &c 4to, Paper 10 

(Frances E.) Among Aliens. Illustrated 4to, Paper 15 

Anne Furness 8vo, Paper 50 

Like Ships Upon the Sea 4to, Paper 20 

Mabel’s Progress 8vo, Paper 40 

The Sacristan’s Household. Illustrated 8vo, Paper 60 

Veronica 8vo, Paper 60 

WALLACE’S (Lew) Ben-Hur 16mo, Cloth 1 60 

WAVERLEY NOVELS. 12mo. With 2000 Illustrations. 

Thistle Edition 48 Vols., Green Cloth, per vol. 1 00 

Complete Sets, Half Morocco, Gilt Tops 72 00 

Holyrood Edition 48 Vols., Brown Cloth, per vol. 75 

Complete Sets, Half Morocco, Gilt Tops 72 00 

Popular Edition 24 Vols., Green Cloth, per vol. 1 25 

Complete Sets, Half Morocco 54 00 

WAVERLEY NOVELS. 12mo. With 2000 Illustrations. 

Waverley ; Guy Mannering ; The Antiquary ; Rob Roy ; Old 
Mortality ; The Heart of Mid-Lothian ; A Legend of Montrose ; 

The Bride of Lammermoor ; The Black Dwarf ; Ivanhoe ; The 
Monastery ; The Abbot ; Kenilworth ; The Pirate ; The Fortunes 
of Nigel ; Peveril of the Peak ; Quentin Durward ; St. Ronan’s 
Well ; Redgauntlet ; The Betrothed ; The Talisman ; Woodstock ; 
Chronicles of the Canongate, The 'Highland Widow, &c. ; The 
Fair Maid of Perth ; Anne of Geierstein ; Count Robert of Paris ; 

Castle Dangerous ; The Surgeon’s Daughter ; Glossary. 

WOOLSON’S (C. F.) Anne. Illustrated by Reinhart 16mo, Cloth 26 

For the Major. Illustrated 16mo, Cloth 1 00 

YATES’S (Edmund) Black Sheep 8vo, Paper 40 

Dr. Wain Wright’s Patient 8vo, Paper 30 

Kissing the Rod 8vo, Paper 40 

Land at Last 8vo, Paper 40 

Wrecked in Port 8vo, Paper 35 


It surpasses all its predecessors. — N. Y. Tribune. 



A Dictionary of the English Language, Pronouncing, Etymological, 
and Explanatory, Embracing Scientific and Other Terms, Numer- 
ous Familiar Terms, and a Copious Selection of Old English 
Words. By the Rev. James Stormonth. The Pronunciation 
Carefully Revised by the Rev. P. H. Phelp, M.A. pp. 1248. 
4to, Cloth, $6 00 ; Half Roan, $7 00 ; Sheep, $7 50. 

Also in Harper’s Franklin Square Library, in Twenty- 
three Parts. 4to, Paper, 25 cents each Part. Muslin covers for 
binding supplied by the publishers on receipt of 50 cents. 

As regards thoroughness of etymological research and breadth of modern inclusion, 
Slormonth’s new dictionar}^ suri)asses all its predecessors. * * * in fact, Stormonth’s 
Dictionary possesses merits so many and conspicuous that it can hardly fail to estab- 
lish itself as a standard and a favorite. — xV. K Ti-ibune. 

ThivS may serve in great measure the purposes of an English cyclopaedia. It gives 
lucid and succinct definitions of the technical terms in science and art, in law and 
medicine. We have the e.vplanation of words and phrases that puzzle most people, 
showing wonderfully comprehensive and out-of the-way research. We need only add 
that the Dictionary appears in all its departments to have been brought down to meet 
the latest demands of the day, and that it is admirably printed. — Times, London. 

A most valuable addition to the library of the scholar and of the general reader. 
It can have for the present no jiossible rival. — Boston Post. 

It has the bones and sinews of the grand dictionary of the future. * * * An invalu- 
able librarj’" book. — Ecclesiastical Gazette, London. 

A work which is certainly without a rival, all things considered, among the dic- 
tionaries of our language. Tlie peculiarity of the work is that it is equally well adapt- 
ed to the uses of the man of business, who demands compactness and ease of reference, 
and to those of the most exigent scholar. — N. Commercial Advertiser. 

As compared with our standard dictionaries, it is better in type, richer in its vocab- 
ulary, and happier in arrangement. Its system of grouping is admirable. * * * He 
who posse.sses this dictionary will enjoy and use it, and its bulk is not so great as to 
make use of it a terror. — Christian Advocate. N. Y. 

A well planned and carefully executed work, which has decided merits of its own, 
and for whicli there is a place not filled by any of its rivals. — N. Y. Sun. 

A work of sterling value. It has received from all quarters the highest commenda- 
tion. — Lutheran Observer. Philadelphia. 

A trustworthy, truly scholarly dictionary of our English lamgnage.— Christian InteU 
l/iQcytccT N. Y. 

The issue of Stormonth’s great English dictionary is meeting with a hearty wel- 
come everywhere. — Boston Transa-ipt. 

A critical and accurate dictionary, the embodiment of good scholarship and the 
result of modern researches. Compression and clearness are its external evidences, 
and it offers a favorable comparison with the best dictionaries in use, while it holds an 
unrivalled place in bringing forth the result of modern philological criticism. — Boston 
Journal. 

Full, complete, and accurate, including all the latest w’ords, and giving all their 
derivatives and correlatives. The definitions are short, but plain, the method of mak- 
ing pronunciation very simple, and the arrangement such as to give the best results 
in the smallest space. — Philadelphia Inquirer. 


Published by HARPER & BROTHERS, New York. 

IIarpeb & Brothers will send the above work by mail., postage prepaid, to any 
part of the United States or Canada, on receipt of the price. 


HARPER’S PERIODICALS. 


HARPER’S MAGAZINE, One Year $4 00 

HARPER’S WEEKLY, One Year 4 00 

HARPER’S BAZAR, One Year 4 00 

HARPER’S YOUNG PEOPLE, One Year .... 2 00 

HARPER’S FRANKLIN SQUARE LIBRARY, 

One Year, 52 Niunbers 10 00 

HARPER’S HANDY SERIES, One Year, 52 Nos. . 15 00 


The Volumes of the Weekly iind Bazar begin with the first Numbers 
for January, the Volumes of the Young People with the first Number for 
November, and the Volumes of the Magazine with the Numbers for June 
and December of each year. 

Subscriptions will be commenced with the Number of each Periodical 
current at the time of receipt of order, except in cases where the sub- 
scriber otherwise directs. 


BOUND VOLUMES. 

Bound Volumes of the Magazine for three years hack, each Volume 
containing the Numbers for Six Months, will be sent by mail, postage 
prepaid, on receipt of $3 00 per Volume in Cloth, or $5 25 in Half Calf. 

Bound Volumes of the Weekly or Bazar for three years hack, each con- 
taining the Numbers for a year, will be sent by mail, postage prepaid, on 
receipt of $7 00 per Volume in Cloth, or $10 50 in Half Morocco. 

Harper’s Young People for 1881, 1882, 1883, and 1884, handsomely 
bound in Illuminated Cloth, will be sent by mail, postage prepaid, on 
receipt of $3 60 per Volume. 

tw The Bound Volume of Harpkr’s Young Peopi-k / or 1880 is out of stock, and 
will not be reprinted at present. 


ADVERTISING. 

The extent and character of the circulation of Harper’s Magazine, 
Harper’s Weekly, Harper’s Bazar, and Harper’s Young People 
render them advantageous mediums for advertising. A limited, number 
of suitable advertisements will be inserted at the following rates: — In the 
Magazine, Fourth Cover Page, $1500 00; Third Cover Page, or First 
Page of advertisement sheet, $5CK) 00; oncrhalf of such page when whole 
page is not taken, $300 00; one-quarter of such page when whole page is 
not taken, $150 00 ; an Inside Page of advertisement sheet, $250 00; one- 
half of such pa^e, $150 00; one'-quarter of such page, $75 00; smaller 
cards on an inside page, per line, $2 00: in the Weekly, Outside Page, 
$2 00 a line ; Inside Pages, $1 50 a line : in the Bazar, $1 00a line : in the 
Young People, Cover Pages, 50 cents a line. Average : eight words to a 
line, twelve lines to an inch. Cuts and display charged the same rates for 
space occupied as solid matter. Remittances should be made by Post- 
OflSce Money Order or Draft, to avoid chance of loss. 

Address: HARPER & BROTHERS, 

Franklin Square, New York. 


<« 4 


• f 







/’ 




w 








\. • X 


• ^ 


» ' 



.5 


f . 


i ■ %■'--*• 




./ 






. c 


^ V ^ 




* * 
V 


». _ -'iv 

V^,.' ■ ■‘- '■■■"^ •> -S 

• I '.rf • .-j "i. ., i" •. 


>/ I .« 


• ; c • . 

•»* s. 


> 


r . 
ir. 

y - ■-•■ 







I* #•■’ ■•;. : - •. •. '►* ■•** 

j ‘■^ <•(•. k-»- 


» 







' I 




I ^ .. 




t I 


4 




;.* . , iV-v- --.xV. -. 

• X * ’ *. / -.•.• ■ ' *. .‘^; -.M ' M* 




. » 


: I' ■ 




fflk*' ' • ' j ‘ 

Ry ; ‘ * * • '^ i • 

^^rii . • ■. /o . y. 


'e:- 


.t, 


•: vV^ 


■ V.- • 




* I 




t , 


u> 


i •# ' j 

. ;^ ; / ' ■ 


r • 


• ■ < 


k 

.. P • 

i. 


' -fwV 


• • «. • • 

.; •! > . - • “ 

yti';. >*Tr 


4 ' 




r««;. >*Tr. \ .• . . , 'ff il, . 

b'»:v,r -vv:.v/ ■; /. 

bV>iOv; , 


L 


• •- 


t* 


• • .v> 




' V - I 

• \ 


• 4 




\ 


h > 





i^. 




'4 


>“ 


•»- •/ -f-:*-' 

r ' -• ( • ./ 

* I %. • "v • 

• * • /i 


At 

V 
# _■ « 


» 

I 


4 


M *'• 




I • 




\m 


fc:-:* 

i ^ *• . 


■ f. 

.Jit 


I' ,) ■*> ■•• ^ X 


\ 


'JU-‘ ' '»•* ^ 

F"V'^ ■;■: 



Iv 


r,. 


* * 
i 



T- .>*•' 


1> • 


j. 


i 1 


»• » 






•i 




• 'I 
“ . •*»< 

V.j4 O 

.4 


* *« JfcV 

a V V* ^ 


N 


N 





V 

% ^ 

•r‘-«r?k 



,f ■/>''»- 


* • » I . 

. ’ • 4 ,*«*-' •» 


**, ■ .^ 


* I 







T-. 


:' . ■ ■ ■-••■ 

'■ 'v*- V- . in 
















LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 


aaDlHfi^2bD3 







